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THE LOST DAUGHTER; 


AND 


OTHER STORIES OF THE HEART. 


BY 


MS. CAROLmE LEE HENTZ. 

AUTHOR OF “ LINDA ; OB, THE TOONH PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE,” “ THE BANISHED SON,* 
“COURTSHIP ANH MARRIAGE; OR, THE C-AL'a AND SORROWS OP AMERICAN LIFE,” 

“ THE PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE ; OR, SCENES IN MRS. HENTZ'S CHILDHOOD,” 

‘‘eoune; or, magnoua vale; or, the heiress op glenmore,” 

“ERNEST UNWOOD; OR, THE INNER LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,” 

“HELEN AND ARTHUR; OR, HlflR TVUSA’S SPINNING-WHEEL," 

“RENA; OB, THE SNOW BIRD,” “LOVE AFTER MARBUGE,” 

“MARCUS WARLAND; or, THE LONG MOSS '/'SING," 

“AOJBERT graham;” a SEQUEL TO “LINDA,” ETC. 





This volume contains so^? of the most charming stories ever written by Mrs, 
Caroline Lee Hentz, among which will be found : “ Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag.” 
*‘Tbe Lost Danghter." “The Maiden of Judea." “The Pea-Green Taffeta.” 
“The Purple Satin Dress." “ The Red Velvet Bodice." “The Snow Flakes.” 
“The Soldier’s Bride." “De Lara’s Bride," and “The Premature Declaration 
•f Love.*' 



NEW YORK 

THE FEDERAL BOOK COMPANY 


PUBLISHEKS 


V ^ 


CiOPTRIGHT, 1870. 

Bt T. B. PETERSON & BROTBERS. 


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CONTENTS 


The Lost Daughter, 9 

The Maiden of Judea, 66 

The Pea-Green Taflfeta, 71 

The Purple Satin Dress, 81 

The Red Velvet Bodice, 92 

The Snow Flakes, 107 

The Soldier’s Bride, 109 

De Lara’s Bride, 123 

The Premature Declaration of Love, 125 

Aunt Patty’s Scrap-Bag, 145 


(») 







THE LOST DAUGHTER; 


CHAPTER I. 

It was night; Father Angelo sat alone in his hermitaga 
the light of a solitary lamp illuminating his august figure. 
An open Bible lay upon his knee, his arms were folded 
across his breast, while his upturned eyes were fixed upon 
the dark ceiling which arched above him. It was a night 
of winds and clouds ; the foliage of the trees swepi sigh- 
ingly against the uncurtained windows, the rushing sound 
of swollen waters came hurriedly and mourningly on the 
ear, and the low, plaintive howl of the watch-dog rose 
when the sobs of the gale subsided, as if to tell his master 
of the desolate aspect of all things abroad. Every thing 
within wore the sober, gray tint of the rock near which 
the little cabin was moored. The walls w’ere of a dim 
gray; a robe of gray serge, confined around the waist by 
a leathern band, covered the majestic figure of Father 
Angelo, and his long, gray locks and flowing beard 
mingled their silvery shadows with the folds of his monk- 
like robe. There was one object which stood out dark and 
imposing in the twilight dimness of the apartment, and 
that was an ancient-looking organ, whose gilded ard massy 
pipes, dim with age, seemed coeval with the ancestral- 
looking being who inhabited that lone spot. All the light 
streamed around the head and bust of the hermit, glim- 
mering on the pages which lay unfolded upon his knee, and 
falling, like a dim fringe of faded gold, round the edge of 
his ash-colored raiment. 

All at once, a faint, wailing cry, heard at the very door 
of the cabin, mingled with the sighs of the wind. Father 
Angelo started from his devout abstraction, and bent his 
ear in the direction of the sound.. At first he thought it 

( 9 ) 


10 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


the moan of some wandering night-bird, then the low 
whine of the watch-dog’s dream ; but it grew louder and 
more distinct, and was evidently the expression of human 
weakness and suffering. The hermit arose, while his tall 
form towered grandly upward within the low walls, and, 
tightening the girdle round his waist, as if strengthening 
himself for some unknown conflict, he opened the door, 
through which a stormy gust came rushing, threatening to 
extinguish his lamp, whose black, unsniififed wdck indicated 
the long reverie in which he had been indulging. 

“Father of Mercies I” exclaimed he, as he bent over 
the threshold, while the wail ascended, as from under a 
weight of down. He stooped lower and lower, then bent 
one knee, and stretched his arms toward a white object 
lying right on the rocky steps of the door. He raised it 
with trembling hands, and bore it to the light. Just as 
he reached the lamp, it struggled, the downy w'rapper fell 
from the upper part, a pair of w^axen white arras broke 
loose from the envelop, and a little cherub infant face 
beamed upon the sight. Unlike those of youth and 
maturity, the tears of infancy leave no disfiguring traces 
©n the moist cheeks ; they are rather like the dew on the 
young flower, making it brighter and fairer as soon as it is 
exhaled by the sun. Father Angelo continued to gaze 
* down on his strange burden in an ecstacy of wonder. It 
was the first time infant innocence had ever been cradled 
in his powerful arms ; the first time its pure breath, 
mingling with his, had penetrated, like a sweet south wdnd, 
to his innermost spirit, whispering of heaven and heavenly 
things. Pleased with its transfer from darkness to light, 
and its release from the smothering folds that mantled its 
face, the infant fixed its soft, bright eyes on the face of the 
hermit with a look so helpless and confiding, it thrilled 
through his thick gray serge robe, and made him clasp the 
ehild closer to his breast. Feeling the grateful warmth, 
the infant twisted its little dimpled fingers in the silvery 
beard that flowed down like a rill on its bosom. 

“Father of the fatherless!” cried he, lifting his eyes, 
which, by a strange fascination, had been riveted on the 
Sielpless being before him, in a heavenward direction, “ia 
it thou who has sent this innocent one to me — me, the 
aged and, the lone? Have the clouds round about thy 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


11 


throne opened, and one of thy cherubs winged its way 
from Paradise to this rock-built nest of mine ? Poor, littl® 
innocent 1” continued he, again fixing his prayerful eyes on 
its fair, still brow, “what a home for thee I How can this 
breast, so long closed to every earthly affection, cherish a 
tender nursling like thee, who should even now be slum- 
bering on a mother’s gentle bosom ? Poor, wind-blow«i 
blossom, thou hast fallen on a bleak and barren soil !” 

The deep voice of the hermit, softened by emotion, mur- 
mured gently in the infant’s ear — for, young as it was, it 
was susceptible to the impression of human kindness — and 
it looked in his face and smiled. Has any sunbeam eves* 
visited this darkened world of ours half so beautiful as the 
smile of infancy ? The little rose-leaf lips curling so 
delicately, the clear, translucent eye lighted up with such 
heavenly lustre, the soft, round cheek dimpling and smooth- 
ing, and dimpling again, like the play of waters in the 
sun, while a tender, brooding sound issues from the dove- 
like throat. How lovely, how touching this assemblag® 
of infant charms I Father Angelo felt his very soul dis- 
solving within him. How strange he looked, that tall, 
monklike, sublime old man, holding with such tender care, 
the frail, down-wrapped foundling I So absorbed was he 
in his novel emotions, he did not heed the opening of a 
side door, or the entrance of a woman dressed in a peas- 
ant’s garb, evidently of a subordinate rank. 

“ The Lord save us I” she exclaimed, when, after step- 
ping cautiously forward, she beheld the smiling babe 
cooing in her master’s arms — “ the Lord save us !” she 
continued, elevating both hands parallel with her eyes, 
“how came that weanling here ?” 

“ The Lord, whom you so lightly invoke, only knovva,"” 
answered Father Angelo. “ Take the child, Naomi. To 
your care I commit it. As you would make a golden bed 
in heaven, let your breast be a pillow of down to this poor 
deserted, but Heaven-sent child.” 

He laid it gently in Naomi’s arms, then lighting his 
lantern, took his oaken staflT, and went forth into the dark- 
ness of the night. 

“Who knows,” thought he, “but the desolate mothe? 
may even now be wandering near, to learn the fate of her 
offspring? God often works out his holy will by huma* 


12 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


instruments. Some one must have left that forlorn one at 
my door, who doubtless needs our cherishing care as much, 
nay, more; for nothing but abandonment and despair 
could have prompted a deed so rash.” 

He held the lantern so as to illuminate the shadows 
which hung round the jagged, massy, and moss-grown 
rocks, against which the cabin leaned, and by which, in 
front, it was partially hidden ; but no form was concealed 
in the gloom. Then lowering it, so that its light streamed 
upon the ground, he caught a glimpse of the waters that, 
made turbid by the late rains, rolled dark and sullen, 
threatening to overflow the banks, and dashing headlong 
and foaming over a bed of rocks just below the cabin. 
With a troubled spirit, he approached nearer and nearer 
the stream, which looked darker and darker in contrast 
with the rays that flashed upon it in a red line with comet- 
like brilliancy. The dull, heavy, continuous gurgling of 
the waters struck coldly on the heart of the hermit — it 
sounded so dirge-like and sad, so much like a funeral wail 
over the drowning or the dead. There was one spot where 
the rocks made a kind of dam, and where the current 
drifted strongest, as if angry with the obstacle which 
impeded its course. There he beheld an object on which 
he at once concentrated his gaze with an intensity of 
horror it is impossible to describe. A woman, whose head 
and shoulders rested on the bank, against which the waves 
had dashed her, lay with white, still face, that gleamed 
ghastly and cold above her dark-colored garments, over 
which the water foamed. Father Angelo, groaning at 
the realization of all his fears, placed his lantern on the 
ground, and-, stooping down, endeavored to raise the life- 
less body before him. The long hair, sweeping down, 
twisted with the slender shrubs that fringed the bank, and 
arrested his movements. With a shudder, he disentangled 
the lifeless and dripping locks, and, leaving his lantern 
behind, he turned with hasty step toward the cabin. 

For twenty years, Father Angelo had slept undisturbed 
in that lone spot, his only inmate the faithful domestic who 
had followed him to the hermitage he had chosen as a 
retreat from the world and its cares. And now, with a 
helpless infant on one side, and a drowned woman on the 
other, he stood for a moment bewildered and horror- 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


13 


stricken. Bat Naomi, who was as remarkable for tne 
energy as the fidelity of her character, deposited the now 
sleeping infant on a bed of blankets, and assisted her mas- 
ter in his efforts to awaken the apparently extinguished 
spark of life in the pale and ghastly body of the stranger. 
But, after hours of fruitless endeavor, they ceased, under 
the conviction that there was but one Being who could ani- 
mate that cold form, and restore the mother to her child. 

“Let the dead rest,” said Bather Angelo, solemnly; 
“ vain is the help of man. Compose her limbs for the 
grave, Naomi, for she hath no more place with the living. 
I go to pray that this mournful event may be sanctified to 
our everlasting good.” 

Naomi was left alone with the dead mother and the 
sleeping infant. The soft, warm breathings of the latter 
stole balmily on an atmosphere which the presence of 
death had chilled, and neutralized its power. Naomi’s 
strong mind resisted the debasing superstition common to 
her class, and, while she set herself gravely and mourn- 
fully to her task, no weak terror of the helpless and 
motionless being before her — alas ! being it could no 
longer be called — -benumbed her hand or glazed her eye. 
The poor victim was beautiful and fair to look upon. She 
seemed to have died without a struggle, for her features 
were placid ; and, though a faint violet tinge shaded her 
mouth, a gentle smile lingered round the lips. It was 
only in the half-closed, glassy, soulless eyes that the tri* 
umph of death was seen ; all else seemed the serenity of 
sleep. Naomi wrapped the body in a linen sheet, while 
she dried the garments saturated in the stream. They 
were of the finest material, and showed the wearer belonged 
to no vulgar class. 

All night, Naomi kept watch over the sleeping and the 
dead. The morning sunbeams lighted up the pallid face 

the suicide ; its evening rays fell upon her grave. 

The infant, thus cradled by Providence in a rocky nest, 
found therein the down of tenderness, soft as that which 
broods over the unfledged bird. There was nothing about 
it to indicate its parents’ names ; but Naomi discovered a 
paper in its bosom, which she gave to Father Angelo. It 
contained these few thrilling words ; — 

“A wife, forsaken by her husband, who, in the extremity 


i4 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


df her despair, is about to commit Uer soul unsumraoned 
auto the hands cf the great and dreadful God, intrusts her 
child to thy keeping. I have heard of thy goodness and 
sanctity, and I come, a heart-broken pilgrim, to lay my 
offering at thy feet. Reject it not, as thou wouldst not bo 
rejected by thy Saviour, when soul and body are parting. 
Far from that world where my happiness has been wrecked, 
let her be nurtured and sheltered. If possible, let her never 
be exposed to the influence of human passion. I dedicate 
ber to God. I intrust her to thee. The name she bears 
^ unhallowed, given with the baptism of a mother’s tears. 

it perish with me, for it is my own. Man of God, 
pray for the sc.ul that, too feeble to withstand the ills of 
life, is yet strong enough to rush into an awful eternity.” 

This sad and only relic of the unhappy and misguided 
being who had left him so strange a legacy, was carefull} 
preserved, as it might hereafter furnish a clue to the birth 
©f the infant. 

“ She shall be called Blanche,” said the hermit, while 
bis quivering lips and moistened eyes were eloquent of 
the past. Then taking the child, and raising it in his 
;^rms toward heaven, he added, in a solemn voice, “ Oh I 
I'kou, whose spirit did once descend in the form of a dove 
s>u the head of the Incarnate, let its wings hover over this 
innocent infant, and save it from the polluting influence of 
sin and passion ! I renew the dedication made by its 
dying mother, and lay this spotless lamb, as a living sacri- 
ice, on thine holy altar I” 

Thus consecrated by prayer, this foster-child of destiny 
received into the deep shades of Rockrest ; and there 
ihloomed into childhood, knowing nothing of the world 
beyond the wild stream that bounded the solitary’s seques- 
tered domain. The cabin was situated in a kind of wil- 
derness, far from the public road, and it w;as only by fol- 
iitiwing the course of the stream the hapless suicide could 
l^ve found that unfrequented spot. Naomi, who pos- 
sessed that vigorous age which partakes of the nature of 
eternal youth, attended to all the wants of the household, 
which were indeed few, and chiefly supplied by the fruits 
ikud vegetables which flourished under her careful hand. 
About once a week, she appeared with a large basket ot- 
her arm, winding along a by-path, on her way to the ueai 


THE LOST DAUOUTER. 


15 


©Bt town, where she could obtain all needed additions 
to their simple store. During her absence, the young 
Blanche w'ould remain with Father Angelo, for whom sh© 
already manifested the most tender and fervent attachment. 
She would sit for hours on a little stool at his feet, listen- 
ing to the music of the organ, wdiile he drew forth it* 
solemn, religious notes, till along, deep sigh, bursting from 
the very heart of the child, showed that she was oppressed 
by the heavy grandeur of the strains ; then he would take 
her in his arms, and placing her little delicate fingers on the 
keys, she smiled as the soft tones gushed from under them, 
believing them all her own, and nestling her rosy cheek in 
his long white beard, looked like a flower amid Alpine 
snows. As she grew older, and her thoughts found ex- 
pression, it was the most interesting thing in the w’orld t® 
watch the development of a mind, unfolding under such 
peculiar circumstances and strange influences. In the 
midst of solitude, the companion of age, she dreamed not 
of the existence of childhood or youth. To her. Father 
Angelo was the incarnation of beauty and power, and sh® 
clung to him with a love, and looked up to him with 
worship, such as the creature feels for the Creator. He 
talked to her of God : she beheld her God in him, his 
goodness and glory, his majesty and love ; and he did, 
indeed, resemble, in lineament and expression, the magnifi- 
cent figures w'hich Raphael’s bold hand has sketched of 
Jehovah presiding over the birth of Creation, and callinsc 
out light from the gloom of chaos. He was old ; but his 
old age was that of the rock which sheltered him, fira 
and strong. It was that of the everlasting mountam, 
covered with perpetual snow, that gives one an im{)ressio?!i 
of power and duration. His ample forehead, covered with 
living snow, was a tablet grooved by the hand of time, 
where hieroglyphics were traced more sublime than Egyp- 
tian priesthood ever knew. His eye, dark, grave, and 
serene, had a depth of meaning in its solemn light th« 
sounding line of thought could scarcely fathom. It had 
the upward glance of prayer, the downward gaze of in- 
tense meditation ; seldom did- it seem fixed on any present 
object, except the little Blanche, and then language could 
not describe its sad, earnest, pitying expression. 

The first time Blanche ever saw lr*'”^f, she was stand' 


16 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


ing by Father Angelo on the borders of the stream whose 
waters had been her mother’s winding-sheet. It was a 
clear, sunny day, and glass is not more translucent than 
the clear, blue surface that reflected the cherub form of 
the child and the venerable figure of the hermitT'hand in 
hand, the most beautiful personification of childhood and 
-age that perhaps ever stood side by side. 

Blanche bent over the stream, and smiled on her own 
sweet image. The sweet image smiled back again. She 
stretched out her fair, dimpled arras, and the feir, watery 
arms responded with the same loving movement. 

“ Look, father, look I” she cried, “there is you; and 
there — who is that little one standing where I am, too ?” 

“ It is yourself, my dear child. The water is like glass, 
and gives back your own image as well as mine. As you 
see me on the bank and in the stream, so do I behold two 
little Blanches.” 

“ But why didn’t God make me like you ?” asked the 
child. “ Why didn’t he make another like me ? Oh, 
Father, I love myself down in the water I I w'ant to take 
hold of myself. Can I ?’> 

And, stooping over, the child would have fallen, de- 
stroying the mirror and her own life, had not the hermit 
held her back ; and, raising her in his arms, he sat down 
under an aged oak, and talked to her of the great Maker 
of all things till her young spirit glowed within her. He 
told her as she saw her own image in the water, God 
could see his image in her heart while it was pure and 
clear like that water ; but if sin entered and polluted her 
thoughts he would turn away his face in sorrow and anger, 
and it would be left dark and troubled like that stream, 
when the wind and the storm swept over it. He told her, 
too, how the Almighty once came into the world to bless 
and to save it ; how he was once a babe in a manger, then 
a little feeble child like herself ; and how, when a man of 
sorrows, he look little children in his arms and blessed 
them, and said of such was the kingdom of heaven. 
Blanche, with her starry eyes riveted on his face, drank in 
these divine truths, and, like the mother of our Lord, in 
after years she pondered on all these things. 

Is it strange that she grew up the purest and most iu^ 
nocent of created beiugs ? 


THE LOa: x»«.CGHTER. 


r7 


Father Angelo, whose mind was richly imbued with 
classic as well as divine lore, poured into hers tne chas- 
tened wisdom of Greece and Rome. He had banished 
from his library every book which treated of love and 
passion, and even the page of history which described 
the ruin caused by unlicensed feeling and lawless crime 
was a sealed volume to her. She read nothing but what 
he selected for her perusal ; she had not a thought con- 
cealed from him, whom she venerated as the best repre- 
sentative of the Deity on earth. 

He taught her to play on the organ, and to modulate 
her voice to sing. She manifested the most intense love 
for music. It satisfied her love of the beautiful, of whose 
existence she was unconscious. It stood to her in the 
place of youth, beauty and love, from whose association 
she seemed forever debarred. Whenever she sang, or 
listened to Father Angelo while he pressed the sounding 
bellows, and waked the instrument to devotional harmony, 
her eyes would fill with tears, her cheeks would flush and 
turn pale, her hands tremble, and her lips quiver. The 
latent music of her being welled up from its hidden spring, 
and, as it flowed and undulated, her transparent counte- 
nance betrayed all the motions within. 

Thus passed the first fifteen years of the young life of 
Blanche. Time; which had expanded her juvenile charms 
into the soft bloom of girlhood, had not perceptibly changed 
the noble lineaments of Father Angelo. His majestic form 
still towered like the palm tree of the desert ; his clear, 
dark eye still beamed with the radiance of the western sun. 
He seemed like one of those prophets of old, sanctified and 
set apart as a vessel of the Lord, into whom he had 
poured his inspiration, and anointed with the oil of his 
graces — 

‘‘Remote from men with God he passed his days. 

Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise ; 

A life so sacred, such serene repose 
Seemed Heaven itself!” 

till an incident occurred which disturbed its peaceful calm 
and left an impression, never to be eflfacea, on the heart oi 
Blanche. 

She was sitting under that aged oak, whose gray 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


18 

strength and unwithered vioor renunded her of Fathef 
Angelo, on the brink of that stream on whose unceasing 
flow she was never weary of gazing; tlie shadow of th® 
oaken branches rested on the water in lengthening lines, 
indicating the declining day. While she thus sat, half re- 
clining on the grass, in an attitude of childish abandon- 
ment, she beheld a boat come gliding down the stream, in 
which were two figures. The novelty of the sight chained 
her to the spot, though her first impulse was to fly to 
Father Angelo and ask him the meaning of the strange 
phenomenon. The occupants of the boat were two young 
men, one of whom was plying the oars with animated 
grace, the other reclining indolently by his side. The 
moment, however, he caught a glimpse of Blanche, he 
spoke in a low voice to his companion, who, resting on 
his oars, suffered the skiff to float gently near the bank 
where she was seated. Such a figure in such a scene 
seemed more like a picture of the imagination than a living 
reality. The peculiarity of her costume alone would have 
riveted their attention. The only direction which Father 
Angelo had ever given Naomi with regard to her ward- 
robe was that she should be clothed in white, the only 
proper raiment, .he remarked, for a Heaven-dedicated 
child. She wore a loose robe, such as angels are repre- 
sented wearing in the artist’s dream, which was confined 
around the waist by a white girdle. Her arms were bare, 
her hair, not curling but waving, partly swept the grass 
and partly floated over her bosom, while her tyes, lustrous 
as the heavens and limpid as the stream, were turned with 
an innocent, wild, shy, wondering, yet admiring look on 
the first youthful specimen of humanity she had ever yet 
beheld. So deep was the seclusion of their dwelling, so 
watchful the guardianship of Father Angelo and Naomi, 
that no null in a cloister was ever more sequestered from 
intercourse with mankind than this young girl. Indeed 
her seclusion was far deeper than the cloistered nun’s, 
for she does meer the dark-stoled monks, and, through the 
grate of her cell, she can look on many a human face 
divine. Father Angelo, who had been driven by one of 
wildest tempest of passion into the haven of Rockreet 
himself, who had seen the mother of Blanche a victim to 
the same moral desolation, and who bad r '^ed upon her 


THE LOST DAUGHTER, 


19 


grave to shield her child from the dread elements whose 
fury they had both known by fatal experience, resolved 
that hers should be a vestal life, and that man should never 
be allowed to make himself a rival of the God who had pro 
claimed himself, amid the thunders and lightnings of Mount 
Sinai, a jealous God. The languid young man, wakened to 
sudden life, stepped upon the bank, and, raising his hat 
gracefully from his head, approached Blanche, who, roused 
from her trance of wonder and admiration, sprang from 
her grassy couch, and was about to fly toward the cabin. 

“ Do not let us alarm you,” said he, in a low and gen- 
tle voice. “ We are strangers, who, led by a spirit of 
adventure to navigate an unknown stream, find ourselves 
80 near the close of day, we would thank you if you could 
direct us to a place of shelter for the night, if there is one 
near.” 

The voice of the angel welcoming the spirit at the gate 
of Paradise could hardly sound sweeter to the soul than 
his youthful accents to the ear of Blanche, accustomed 
only to the venerable accents of Father Angelo, and the 
kind, but coarser tones of the good Naomi. A sudden 
revelation of another life, a life unkriown before, flashed 
upon her. The eyes of the young stranger, beaming with 
admiration, were riveted upon her face, and, for the first 
time, a deepening blush stole glowingly over the lilies of 
her cheek. 

“Father Angelo dwells in that cabin behind the rock,” 
she replied. “ There is no other habitation near.” 

Do you know him ? Will he be willing to receive 
us ?” inquired the young man, exchanging glances with 
his companion, who, leaning over the edge of the skiff, 
waited with manifest interest the result of the conversa- 
tion. 

“ He is a Christian,” replied Blanche, with holy sim- 
plicity ; “ and God tells us to be kind unto strangers. 
Yonder he comes. I will ask him.” 

At the sight of Father Angelo’s tall and august form, 
lookiig still taller and more ancestral in its robes of 
solemn gray, his long, white, flowing beard and snowy 
locks uncovered to the breeze, the strangers again looked 
at each other with a peculiar embarrassment. 

“Ah, I see now where we are,” exclaimed the speaker. 


20 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


*'This must be tlie Hermit of Rockrest. But you, young 
maiden, surely you do not dwell with him 1’’ 

“ He is my father on earth, given me by my Father 
in Heaven,” answered the orphan recluse, unconscious that 
her language was very different from what the strangers 
were wont to hear from the lips of youthful beauty. 

By this time, the hermit had reached the spot where 
the stranger stood, and, as Blanche raised her innocent 
eyes to his face, she, for the first time, trembled and shrunk 
befone its severe and majestic expression. Why did a 
strange feeling of shame, unknown before, roll like a 
sultry cloud over the spotless surface of her thoughts t 
Why did she bow her head till her long, loose locks man- 
tled the blushes that burned upon her cheeks ? 

“ Blanche,” said the hermit, raising his hand in the direc- 
tion of the cabin, and bending upon her a grave, rebuking 
glance. She understood his motion, and obeyed it, though 
not without casting her eyes one moment toward the 
young stranger, whose countenance flashed like lightning 
as she passed. He dared not detain her ; for there stood 
that awful-looking old man, leaning upon his staff like one 
of the prophets of old, as if ready to call down the thun- 
ders of Heaven. 

“Young man,” said Father Angelo, “what is your 
errand here ?” 

“We have wandered out of our way,” he replied, awed 
by the voice and manner of the hermit. “We wished to 
find shelter for the night, for the day is almost spent.” 

“ The moon will light the path of your return,” replied 
the hermit. “ If you were weary travelers, girded for 
toil, and employed in the service of my Divine Master, I 
would give you food and shelter and rest ; but the sons of 
pleasure can find no'welcome with us. Go back to your 
gay companions, and disturb not the abode of the solitary. 
Ye are of the world. We are not of the world. You 
and I can no more mingle than the rock and the stream. 
Why do you linger ? I do not wish to be harsh and in- 
hospitable,” he added, in a softened tone ; “ but I cannot 
sufler the breath of that world from which I have forever 
withdrawn, to pollute the solitude of this heaven-dedicated 
<pot. The earth is broad. ’Tis but a narrovv path I 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 21 

have chosen to walk in. Respect my rights, and invade 
them no more.” 

There was something so commanding in the appearance 
and voice of Father Angelo, that the young man dared 
not linger. With an air of haughtiness, struggling with the 
awe which he could not shake off, he turned away, jumped 
into the skiff by the side of his companion, whose dipping 
oars soon flashed brightly in the rays of the setting sun. * 

** What did the young man say that covered your 
cheeks with blushes ?” asked Father Angelo of Blanche, 
as they sat together in the light of the moon, that streamed 
into the low window of the cabin, and sprinkled with silver 
the faded gilding of the organ. 

“Nothing, father,” replied Blanche. “ He only asked 
for shelter, which 1 promised him in your name. ‘ I was 
a stranger, and ye took me in,’ said our Saviour, and you 
have often repeated the words to me. Why, father, did 
you send them away in anger, instead of opening your 
door to receive them ?” 

“ Did you wish them to remain, Blanche ?” 

“ I did, father,” she replied, without looking up : for 
that strange feeling of confusion, which she had never 
known before, dimmed the crystal mirror of her eye. 

“ They were beautiful and fair to look upon, and the voice 
of him who addressed me sweet as the sound of the dis- 
tant waterfall. Surely, father, if the sons of men resemble 
these, they cannot be the wicked beings you have taught 
me to shun. These must have been angels ; for the Bible 
says those who welcome strangers, sometimes entertain 
angels unawares.” 

“ My child! my child 1” cried the hermit, in an earnest 
and troubled tone. “ Remember how the serpent, with 
his beguiling tongue, charmed the mother of mankind. 
Remember how Lucifer was transformed to an angel of 
light. Oh, thou Guardian of innocence,” continued he 
lifting up his invoking hands over her innocent head, “ le 
not the tempter invade this new Eden of my chastened 
heart ! Once-, once I have been banished from my para- 
dise, in which the serpent had stolen. Spare me, 0 God, 
another trial ! Not me alone — not for myself I pray. 
Plunge me in the furnace glowing with sevenfold heat, if 
it be thine infinite will ; but spare this spotless lamb — this 
2 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


£2 

Iamb of the flock of Gilead, whom I have reserved for 
thy noly altar I” 

Awed by the solemnity of his words and manner, Blanche 
sunk upon her knees and bowu'd her head upon his lap. 
There was silence for a few moments, when the hermit 
spoke — 

“ Look up, my child. See how the moonbeams sparkle 
on the water. How peaceful and smiling it looks ! And 
yet those same wavelets, now calm as the fleecy vault above, 
were woven as a shroud around your mother’s form, and 
prepared her for the grave where she now slumbers. I 
have never told you the story of your infancy ; but it is 
time that I should warn you of the doom which was hers, 
and show you the lines traced by the hand of misguided 
passion and fatal expeiience.” 

“ You told me that God had given me to your arms,” 
said the trembling Blanche, “ that I might be devoted to 
his service, and pass my days in prayer and praise. Tell 
me not of sorrow and sin ; it makes me wish to die.” 

“ When temptation approaches, the armor of defense 
must be prepared. Better, far better to know of the rocks 
and quicksands that lie beneath the waves of existence, 
than wait till life’s frail bark is dashed against them by the 
fury of the tempest and broken into shivers.” 

Then, taking her hand. Father Angelo led her down to 
the very brink of the stream, and showed her the rocks 
over which the current foamed bright and white in the 
moonlight, and told her how dark and angry was the scene 
on the night when her mother lay cold and stiff in her liquid 
shroud, while she, a weeping infant, reclined beneath his 
threshold. Then, winding through a path shaded by shrub- 
bery and long grass, he carried her to the grave, now scarcely 
distinguishable from the greensward around it, where the 
victim of passion slept in lonely and unawaking slumber. 

“ Oh, my father,” cried the weeping Blanche, rising from 
ifie grave of her mother, and throwing herself into his 
arms, “ save me from myself — save me from the world I 
But when you die — for you say the aged die before the 
young — who will shield me from temptation and guard me 
from evil ?” 

” He who committed you to my keeping will give his 
angels charge concerning thee, and they will bear thee upon 


THE 1X)ST PAUUllTER. 23> 

tlieir winjrs, and cover thee with them as a shield, ‘ Fear 
not, for I am with thee,’ saith the Lord Almio^hty.” 

From this night, a change came over the spirit of 
Blanche. Shadows, coming and going, flitted over the 
heavenly serenity of her brow, and a dewy softness ofttimes 
vailed the clear lustre of her eyes. Slie was both happier 
and sadder than before. The stream, on wliose margin 
she had so loved to recline, no longer whispered to her 
of everlasting }>eace. Its murmurs told the story of her 
mother’s sorrows, and she saw in its cold l)osom the image 
of her death-chilled form. But wliile these remembrances 
came darkly and appallingly on one side, on the other 
glided the vision of the youthful strangers. Again she 
beheld the graceful figure standing at her side, with an 
eye bright as the sun, yet soft as the waning moon. 
Wherever ^he was, that phantom form was near. Even 
when she knelt in prayer, it came and knelt at her side, 
and she could hear its voice of music mingling with the 
deep and organ-like tones of Father Angelo. 

That one brief moment was never to be forgotten. She 
might linger in that solitude till her locks were white as 
the snowy locks of the hermit, till she, too, passed into 
the long, polar winter of life, but its memory would still 
be to her a vernal bloom, unchilled by its snows, a silver 
fountain uncongealed by its frosb 


CHAPTER II. 

Vain theory, that in solitude the passions die ! If, in 
plunging into its depths, one could leave behind him 
that restless thing, the heart, then indeed there would bo 
peace ; but the wind stirs the foliage of the lonely moun- 
tain as well as that of the peopled plain ; and wherever 
the stormy elements of life exist, they will burst forth in 
strength, the greater for their long quiescence. Solitude 
is the empire of passion — not its grave. 

Blanche no longer sat by the margin of the stream 
alone Father Angelo was e^^er a^^ side, ready to guard 


24 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


and sustain, ever talking to her of Heaven and heavenly 
things. In vain she watched for the gliding boat and the 
coming stranger. 

One evening, Father Angelo was reading to her from 
the Divine Volume; she sat against the organ, whose 
dark and massive form brought out in strong relief her own 
white-robed figure. Naomi plied her needle at a little 
distance, listening with reverend attention to the accents 
of her aged master. It was a peaceful scene, and a sweet 
quietude rested on the young face of Blanche. The hermit 
was reading the history of the daughter of Jephthah, and 
she vSaw in it a type of her own destiny. At that moment, 
it seemed to her a glorious one, and her eye began to kindle 
with a holy inspiration. 

There was a step heard on the threshold. The footstep 
of the stranger in that solitude was as startling as the print 
on the sand in Crusoe’s desert isle. Blanche trembled. 
Father Angelo rose with a clouded brow, and, opening 
the door, the young stranger, whose image had haunted 
the memory of Blanche, stood before him. The hermit 
drew back with a cold and stately air ; but a slow burst of 
irrepressible delight illumined the face of Blanche. Faint 
from excess of joy, she leaned against the organ, and clasped 
both hands over her heart, to still its wild pulsations. 

“ Why hast thou come again, young man ?” said Father 
Angelo, in stern accents. “ I told thee the world was 
wide, and that there was room enough in it for thee and 
me, but that there must be a broad path between us, 
stranger 1 I cannot bid thee welcome, for ray soul if 
troubled within me. Something tells me that thy coming 
is the herald of sorrow.” 

“ Nay, not so, father,” cried the young man, with a de- 
precating smile; and placing some letters in his hand. 
“ Read these, and you will see that I am no nameless ad- 
venturer, unworthy of your regard, but the son of a noble- 
man, and the companion of the noblest of the land.” 

“ Clarence, son of Clarence I” repeated the hermit, 
glancing his eye over the letters and again folding them. 

Titles are of no estimation in my eyes. That you are 
a descendant of the King of king reflects upon you far 
greater honor.” 

“ To be heir of an honorable name, unstained by crime 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


25 


and adorned by talents, is a distinction of which a younj? 
man may well be proud,” answered Clarence, with uncou 
ficious haughtiness. 

“ The echoes of fame are never heard within these rock- 
bound walls,” replied the hermit. “ What,” added he. 
coramandingly, “ what is all this to me ?” Then, turning 
suddenly to Blanche, continued, “ Blanche, retire with 
Naomi.” 

Blanche rose, with a fading cheek, but Clarence sprung, 
forward and arrested her departure. 

" No, stay,” he impetuously cried. It was for you I 
■came. Life has been but one dream of you since I beheld 
you under the shadow of the oak. Leave me not, I 
entreat, but pray this stern-hearted and inflexible old man 
to look benignantly on me, for your sake.” 

“ Oh, father,” said Blanche, laying her hand imploringly 
on the arm of Father Angelo, “ if not for mine, for the 
sake of the dear Redeemer, speak kindly to this young 
man, and bid him stay.” 

“ My child, my blessed child, you know not what you 
ask. If I bid him remain, peace will vanish. The image 
of a holy God will be hurled from its altar, and an earthly 
idol usurp its place. Remember that a dying mothei 
dedicated you to Heaven, as an expiation for her own 
sinful idolatry. Remember that every year, as it has 
rolled over 'your head, I have renewed the solemn conse 
oration, which your own heart has sanctioned, and attest- 
ing angels witnessed. Blanche, you will not, you cannot 
prove false to these threefold vows.” 

“ She cannot, she will not prove false to the impulses of 
nature and truth,” exclaimed the young man keeping hia 
fascinating gaze on the face, which never before had glowed 
beneath the glance of love. “ Her heart abjures such un- 
natural obligations. It already throbs in unison with 
mine. I see it ; I feel it. Heaven created us for each 
other ; and by keeping us asunder, after having once met, 
you defeat the purposes of the most High, and doom to 
solitary wretchedness two beings whose mutual joy your 
blessing ought to crown. Old man,” continued he, with in- 
creasing fervor, “in the frozen calm of age have you 
entirely forgotten the memories of youth ? Does no re- 
membrance jQjiead for love like mine, no form of beauty 


26 


THE LOST DAUGHTER- 


iilie hers rise araid the dimness of the past, remindinp^ jojt 
of the omnipotence of passion ?” 

“ Beware !” exclaimed the hermit, while his powerful 
form shivered with sudden emotion, and a cold moisture 
prleamed upon his forehead. “ Warm the chilled and tor- 
pid serpent if you dare, and brave its sting, but uncoil not 
the serpent memories of my youth, rouse them not from 
their long lethargy. Young man, 1 have loved and suf- 
fered — sinned and sorrowed, as I trust you may never sor- 
row' and never sin. All the waters of the ocean could 
never efface the remembrance of those days of strife and 
passion ; but 1 humbly trust the dark stain they left upon 
my soul has been w'ashed out in the blood of the Lamb. 
Here, in this solitude, I have found peace after the wreck 
of joy. Here, I have fostered this pure blossom of inno- 
cence to present it an offering of sweet-smelling savor un- 
to Heaven. She is guileless and happy. Leave her, as 
you found her, in the bosom of tranquillity. Seek a com- 
panion in pleasure among the daughters of men, and tempt 
not a child of God into the paths of a polluted w'orld. 

As he spoke, he folded one arm around Blanche and 
drew her closely to him, w'hile the folds of his gray robe 
mingled with her white flowing raiment. He bent his 
head till his wintry locks blended with the vernal luxuri- 
ance of hers; and tears, slow'ly falling like rain from a cold 
cloud, glittered on her hair. The young man w'as moved, 
but his emotion only gave warmth and strength to his 
eloquence. 

“ Father,” said he, bending his knee, for it seemed an 
act of reverence due to this sublime old man, “ listen to 
me for her sake, if not for mine. When you are gone, aiid 
you must be near the end of your pilgrimage, who will 
protect this young and helpless being? Who will shelter 
her from the. storms you so much dread? Would you 
leave her in this wilderness with no guardian but a woman 
who already must feel the infirmities of life stealing upon 
her? Have you never thought of this?” 

“ God never forsakes those who put their trust in him,” 
answ'ered the hermit, looking devoutly upward. “ Not a 
sparrow falls to the ground without his knowledge ; and 
k she not of more value than they ?” 

"Let her speak,” said Clarence; "surely you wouM not 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


27 


bind her, an unwilling: victim, to vow's made in her infancy 
The God to whom you have devoted her will not accej^t a 
heartless sacrifice. Speak, Blanche — let me call you by 
your own sweet name — and tell me if you are not wilKng 
to leave this desolate spot for the home of joy and lo\e 1 
came to olfer you. There you can erect an altar to your 
God, and offer him as pure an incense as ascends from this 
rocky shrine. He is not confined to this lone spot. He 
fills immensity with His presence, and w’herever a human 
heart beats, there is His temple. Blanche, we wdll worship 
Him together. Does not my prayer find an echo in your 
soul? Speak, and tell me if my spirit pleads alone.” 

Blanche, who had been cliiiging to the hermit in unut- 
terable agitation, gradually released her hold, and, gliding 
down upon her knees, buried her face in the folds of his 
robe. 

“Oh, father,” she cried, “I dare not speak. I fear your 
anger, but I feel as if invisible hands, were drawing me 
toward him ; and if you send him from me, it seems as if 
my life-chords would break asunder. Have pity upon me, O 
my father, and cast me not off in thy displeasure. I can- 
not help finding the face of the stranger fair, and his voice 
sweet to my ear.” 

“Alas ! alas !” said Father Angelo, tenderly raising her 
In his arms, and looking mournfully on her face. “For 
more than fifteen years have I borne you on my heart as 
the one lone flower sent to sweeten my blighted existence, 
and the stranger of a day must come to rob me of its 
fragrance, and leave me, like my own sheltering rock, 
bleak and bare.” 

“No, no, father,” exclaimed Blanche. “I do not ask to 
leave. I only pray that he may remain with me. Then 
you will have two flowers, instead of one, to gladden your 
life.” 

A proud smile played for a moment on the lips of Clar- 
ence, as glancing round those low, dim walls, he contrasted 
them with the lofty halls of his father. 

“Young man,” said the hermit, seating Blanche by his 
side, and motioning to a seat, “sit down, and let us com- 
pose our excited feelings. We must think and speak 
calmly of all these things.” 


28 


THE LOST daughter. 


“ Call me Clarence, father. Treat me not as a stranger, 
but as a son, for such would I be unto thee.” 

Father Angelo looked earnestly and sadly on the young 
man, and, as he beheld his fair and beaming countenance, 
he could not help his own spirit cleaving unto him, and 
his pity rose for the young and tender Blanche. He might 
banish the youth from his dwelling ; but could he efface 
his image from her heart ? He could bind her down to the 
rocky home which had so long sheltered her; but could he 
prevent her thoughts from roving to the world illumined 
by his presence ? Shall he pierce, with a strj^^ more 
cruel than the sacrificial knife, that innocent bosom, and 
watch day after day the dark smoke of suffering rising 
above the altar, instead of the pure incense of prayer and 
of praise ? He believed in an overruling Providence — a 
Providence that not only presides over the destinies of 
mighty empires, but directs the motion of the falling leaf. 
It could not have been chance which guided the boat of 
the stranger over the waters of the lake into an unknown 
stream, thus penetrating into the solitude which he had 
believed impervious. Perhaps she was created to serve 
her divine Master in the high places of the world, to be a 
beacon set upon a hill, to which the mariners of life 
might turn when about to be drifted on the shoals of 
temptation. God had, perchance, confided her to his care 
during her growing childhood, that a pure and holy being 
might be formed, whose example, placed before the daugh- 
ters of fashion, would show them the loveliness of piety, and 
allure them to heaven. These thoughts rolled slowly 
through the mind of the hermit, like the sun struggling 
through a misty atmosphere, leaving a brightening track, 
though not dispersing the clouds. 

With his zeal for the glory of God and the salvation of 
Blanche, he was conscious the leaven of selfishness was 
also mingled. For his own sake, he had likewise wrestled 
with the young man’s spirit, for the child of his adoption 
was dear to him as the life-blood of his veins, and the 
thought of yielding her to another, far more terrible than 
death. In deep self-abasement, he acknowledged to him- 
self his own w'eakness, and the deeper his humility, the 
greater his compassion, the stronger his sympathy. 

“Young man — Clarence — iry son,” he cried, laying his 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 




band kindly on the shoulder of the youth, who thrilled 
with rapture at the benignant words — ‘Het us mase this a 
matter of solemn, earnest prayer. I am willing to submit 
it to an all- wise and all-controling Deity. Blanche is but a 
child, and you are only in the morning of manhood. You 
know nothing of each other, nothing of the melancholy 
despotism of Time, in crushing the buds of feeling under 
his iron heel. You love each other now, but you have 
only looked into each other’s eyes, and seen the beauty of 
youth mirrored in their beams. The flame so suddenly 
enkindled may be extinguished by the breath of experience. 
Go back, my son, to the scenes you have quitted, and let 
time and absence test the strength of your new-born love. 
In the mean time, let Blanche commune with her own 
heart, in the holy shades which have embosomed her from 
infancy. Nature now blooms in the glory of summer ; when 
the last leaves of autumn have fallen, and the breath of the 
dying season whispers of wisdom and disposes to medita- 
tion, you may come to us once more, and I will tell you the 
dealings of God with our souls.” 

“How long I” exclaimed Clarence, reproachfully. 

“How long!” echoed the heart of Blanche. 

“And then,” cried Clarence, “may I claim her as my 
own ? May I bring with me a man of God to perform 
the nuptial rite, or are you invested with sacerdotal power 
to consecrate our union ?” 

“I can make no promises for the future,” replied the 
hermit, rising — and his majestic height seemed almost 
supernatural, so near it approached the low walls. “ It 
is in vain that man builds the palace of hope, unless God’s 
hand leads him in. The future I Who dares talk of the 
future ? Who can measure its dim boundaries ? Who 
can gather its unknown fruits? Who can tell whether its 
untrodden fields be goldm with harvests or black with 
*uin ? Not we, who stand upon the narrow isthmus of the 
Present, between the two great Illimitables.” 

The youthful Clarence felt oppressed by the grandeur of 
Father Angelo’s sentiments, and found no words to reply. 
He longed for some communion with Blanche, but he 
hardly dared to gaze upon her in the presence of her awe- 
inspiring guardian. He felt that he must go; but he was 
not banished forever ; he was permitted to return, and that 


30 


THE LOST DAUOIITER. 


was an indulgence beyond liis hojx's, after liis first stern 
greeting. He lingered, unwilling to depart without receiv- 
ing from Blanche some j)ledge of faith, some token of love. 
Yet she was surrounded by such an unapproachable atmo- 
sphere of childlike innocence ai d saintly piety, it seemed 
.sacrilege to address her in Uio language of earthly pas* 
si on. 

“I will go with you to the \Aater’s edge,” said Father 
Angelo, “unless,” he added, as if struck with a sudden 
recollection, “you will remain and sit down at our ^inipie 
board, Sih^er and gold have I none, but such as I Imve 
I freely offer unto thee.” 

Clarence gladly remained, though he could not partake 
of Naomi’s neatly-served repast. The agitation of his 
mind silenced the demands of appetite. He only quaffed 
the water of the “crystal well,” that refreshed, with its 
icy coolness, the lips burning with the repression of its 
glowing thoughts. 

Blanche, who knew nothing of the art of ruling her 
emotions, sat by the side of Father Angelo, and, under 
the shadow of his lofty height, bent her dove-like eyes, in 
all their dewy softness, on the face which realized to her 
all she had ever dreamed of angels. She contrasted the 
bright darkness of his hair with the dim white of Father 
Angelo’s ; the soft, warm radiance of his eyes, that seemed 
to be sinking into her soul, with the deep, calm light of 
the hermit’s, which appeared flashing into his own. Her 
cheek, usually uncolored, like the flower blooming in shade, 
ungilt by the sun, now emulated the tint in the heart of 
the wild rose. 

“And now, my son,” said Father Angelo, when they 
rose from the supper, which, to the mortification of the 
good Naomi, was left almost untouched, “ I will speed you 
on the way — the night will be dark, and a few moments 
of lingering will add no joy to remembrance. You will 
come again, but you cannot bring the peace which reigned 
in this little cabin a few hours ago.” 

“ Father, I will bring joy and love ; and who could not 
exchange peace for these? Blanche,” said he, turning 
irresolutely toward her — 

“ Come,” said the hermit, “ a simple farewell is all that 
need be uttered, and let God’s blessing follow it.” 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


31 

Farewell, Blanche,” exclaimed C arence, taking her 
hand and pressing it with fervor in both his own. The 
next moment he was following the steps of the hermit, 
and Blanche threw herself weeping into the arms of 
Naomi. 

'‘Oh, my mother,” she cried, “he has taken away my 
life with him, and left his own instead. Tell me, good 
Naomi, why does my heart throb so wildly, when it is not 
terror that I feel ? and why do I weep so blindly, when 
I am more glad that he came than grieved that he has 
left me ? Even now I am passing over all the flowers of 
summer, and thinking of the autumn’s fading leaves.” 

“ My dear child,” said Naomi, tenderly smoothing her 
disordered tresvses, “there is no shame in your tears, noi 
sin either. The Lord has surely sent this young man 
hither, and we must not oppose his blessed will. When 
good Father Angelo is taken away, and he cannot live 
forever, there would be nobody to keep away the wolves 
from the little lamb but poor old Naomi. You need not 
fear if you quit these rocks and woods that you will leave 
the great Lord behind you, for the Bible says, the heaven 
of heavens cannot contain Him, and this is but one poor 
and narrow spot. Truly the young man is a goodly 
nouth, and bears himself riglit nobly.” 

“ I)o not^top, my good Naomi,” cried Blanche, caress- 
ing her affectionate foster-mother. “ Your voice was 
never so pleasant to my ears. You said he was a goodly 
youth — go on. Think you the world contains one so 
good and fair ?” 

“ Ah, my child,” she replied, “ the world is full of fair 
people, more of the fair than the good ; but he might 
pass aino'ig them all.” 

“ Ars there any maidens in the world fairer than I am, 
Naomi ?” 

“How do you know that you are beautiful and fair?’' 
asked Naomi, smiling at her simplicity. 

“ I have seen myself in your eyes and Father Angelo’s ; 
and to-night I looked upon myself in the eyes of Clarence, 
and I felt that I must be fair like himself. Does not love 
make every one beautiful ?” 

“ It does to the one that loves.” 

From this time Blanche clung to Naomi with a tender- 


32 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


ness greater than she had ever felt before. She was a 
woman, and could sympathize with her new and overpow- 
ering emotions. She was good and })ious, but her piety 
was not so sublimated as Father Angelo’s. She had 
withdrawn from the world, not because she had expe- 
rienced treachery or sorrow, but because she loved her 
master, and resolved to share his secluded destiny. She 
had carried into solitude all her social feelings unchilleOy 
her kindly charities still warm in her bosom. It seemed 
as if Providence had sent the young Blanche as an object 
on which her affections could overflow. She looked up 
to Father Angelo with a reverence so blended with hu- 
mility, it could find ex|)ression only in acts of personal 
devotion. The love of the lowly in heart, like the wmtery 
element, seeks a level, and its current follows a downward 
course. She could look down upon the child committed 
to her care, for it was dependent and helpless, and her 
love could find utterance in words. The great want of 
her being was satisfied. Tliough in a subordinate situa- 
tion, her sentiments were dignified and pure, and constant 
communion with such a spirit as Father Angelo’s had 
given them a heavenly cast. She knew the history of his 
early life, but when he took possession of the hermitage 
of Rockrest, he had said to her — 

“ Naomi, the past is a grave ; let silence forever rest 
apon it.” 

This silence she had never broken. Even to Blanche 
she h.ad never violated the of the injunction, or 

spoken of her master otherwise than as the world-abjuring 
saint. She had also religiously respected his purpose of 
keeping Blanche perfectly .secluded from the world ; but 
now when, in spite of their vigilance, human love had 
rivalled the divine in her heart, she could not help re- 
joicing in the hope that this flower of beauty would b© 
transplanted to a warm*r soil and a brighter atmosphere. 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


33 


CHAPTER III. 

The tiowers of summer had faded, the leaves of autumn 
faller., and paved the margin of the stream with their 
pallid gold. Clarence came, and Father Angelo, bowing 
to what he believed the decree of a higher power, no 
longer opposed his union with Blanche, and he promised 
that when the buds of spring unfolded, she should be 
given to his arms. In vain Clarence pleaded ; the hermit 
was inflexible. 

“ She is too young,” he answered. Would you lure 
the bird from its parent nest before its tender wings can 
unfurl ? My mission is not yet ended. Her guardian 
angel is still waiting here.” 

The winters of that mild latitude are short, and the 
verdure and foliage of spring ere long beautified the soil. 

Naomi was troubled about the bridal robes of her fos- 
ter-child ; but the hermit reminded her of Martha, who 
was careful and troubled about many things, and there- 
fore rebuked by her Lord. 

“ Let her be adorned with the same virgin simplicity as 
she now' is,” said Father Angelo; “with no ornament 
but her unshorn locks, the crowning glory of womanhood. 
As a daughter bf Zion she shall leave me, though as such 
I fear she will never return.” 

The day appointed for the nuptials was balmy and 
serene. No pompous retinue was to attend the youthful 
bridegroom. He was to come, accompanied only by the 
man of God. As he was to bear his bride over the stream 
which he was the first to navigate, he had fitted up a 
splendid barge, with silken hangings, and christened i* 
the Arctic Dove. The name appeared in golden charac- 
ters on the boat, and, fluttering above it, the winged mis- 
sionary of the deluge, bearing in its beak the bloomy 
olire. 

It was the wish of Father Angelo that they should be 
united under the old oak, the hermit of the stream, be- 
neath the canopy of heaven, in a temple not made with 
hands. Thus the nuptials became grand and solemn. 
The same waves that received the drowning sigh of the 


34 


THE LOST DAUGHTER 


mother heard the nuptial vows of the child, and the same 
hands which had crawn from its watery grave the stiffened 
form of the one wtre now raised in benediction over the 
plighted vows of the other. 

Blanche knelt at the feet of Father Angelo, the weddei 
wife of Clarence. And novv that the hour of parting was 
come, and she was to be borne from the guardian arms 
which had so tenderly cherished her, the mighty debt she 
owed him pressed upon her a weight of gratitude too 
heavy to be borne. All the love she bore to Clarence 
all the brilliancy of the prospects opening to her view, 
■could not reconcile her to the separation. To leave him 
in loneliness and age seemed cruel and ungrateful ; to 
leave him when she was just becoming old enough to re» 
pay his cares, and to gild the shadows of his departing 
days w'ith the deepening brightness of her own ! 

“Bless me, my father,” she cried, folding her arms 
around his knees, and looking up in his face through 
showering tears. “ And oh I forgive that I have loved 
better the face of the stranger than the one on which I 
have gazed so long. Pray for me, my father, pray for 
me, as I float out into that unknown world whose dangers 
I am going to brave. If sickness fall upon you, or death 
come near, I \vill return on wings to your bosom, to soothe 
your suff'erings and minister to your wants.” 

Father Angelo raised her from the earth, and held her 
a moment in a silent embrace. His face was deadly pale, 
and tears trembled on his silver lashes. Then releasing 
one arm, and lifting the hand toward heaven, he ex- 
claimed — 

“ The blessing of a triune God rest upon you forever 
and ever, thou child of ray prayers and darling of my 
hopes I Let no thought of me sadden your joys, or darken 
your future home. But if sorrow and disappointment be 
your lot, should the storm arise and the lightnings flash, 
remember the haven of Rockrest, where your frail bark 
may again be sheltered ; remember these aged arms that 
are ever open to enfold you.” 

“ And thou too, my son !” added he, turning to Cla- 
rence, and blessing him after tlie manner of the patriarchs 
of old. “ But if ever the vows you have breached this 
day be forgotten or broken, either through falsehood. 


TUE LOST DAUGHTER. 


35 


neglect, or desertion, th) blessing will turn to an undying 
curse, and burn into yocr soul with unquenchable fire.” 

“ Father, I will nevei forfeit your blessing,” exclaimed 
Clarence, impetuously. " 1 swear” — 

“ Sw'ear not, my son, neither by heaven, for it is God’s 
llirone, nor by the earth, for it is his footstool. And 
now farewell, ray dear children. May He who hung his 
rainbow over the undeluged world, as a token of His 
covenant mercy, preserve you both from the temptations 
of your own hearts, in the midst of an ungodly world !” 

Then, separating Blanche forcibly from the weeping 
Naomi, he waved his hand toward the barge. A few 
moments after, Blanche found herself seated by the side 
of Clarence, encircled in his arms, and her head drooping 
almost unconsciou'sly on his breast. She , was gliding 
slowly, gently along, to the music of the dipping oars, 
while the silken awning rustled with the breeze, and the 
water dimpled and sparkled in the sun. As the boat 
gradually receded from the wild home of her childhood, 
she could still see the tall figure of Father Angelo lean- 
ing, as it were, on the blue of heaven, like one of those 
time-gray ruins rising in hoary magnificence amid the 
gloom of antiquity. 

And now, behold Blanche, the child of solitude and 
prayer, the inhabitant of that world which had always 
seemed to her at such an immeasurable distance ! 

One whose blind-born eyes are suddenly opened to the 
visible glories of creation could hardly be more dazzled 
and bewildered than Blanche. She had never dn-amed 
of the existence of the splendor that surrounded her, and 
it was long before she could be convinced it was a reality. 
It was still longer before she could fashion herself to the 
manners and customs of the beings with whom she was 
associated. She was a wild forest-flower imbedded in 
diamonds. At first, their glitter seemed cold to the sun- 
beams that had warmed her rock-sheltered home. There 
was no warmth, no life, when Clarence was not near. In 
his absence, each moment of time was a drop of lead fall- 
ing, heavy and dull ; in his presence, a golden sand glid- 
ing too swiftly away. Never perhaps did human love 
arise to such wild idolatry, or manifest itself with such 
fervor and strength. A/ id the love of Clarence was 


36 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


equally enthusiastic and intense, but accustomed to that 
repression of feeling which custom requires. In society, 
he chastened its ardor and withheld its expression. 
Dearly as he loved her, he feared the ridicule of the 
world, and often blushed at the smile her adorning looks 
and clinging devotion elicited from those around them, 
Sor artless exclamations of wonder and delight, the soft 
wildness of her eyes, that paused to rest on any object 
that charmed them, whether animate or inanimate, the 
childish and free grace of her attitudes, the simplicity and 
holiness of her language, and the angelic loveliness of her 
person, made her the theme of universal curiosity, interest 
and admiration. When told she was beautiful, she did 
not deny the praise, and accuse the one who addressed 
her of flattery. 

“Yes, I know that I am fair,” she simply replied; “but 
God made me so. You should praise Him, not me.” 

One evening, when she appeared decorated with dia- 
monds, the gifts of Clarence, she gazed earnestly at the 
bracelets that glittered on her arm. 

“ Of what are you thinking, sweet Blanche ?” asked 
Clarence, observing the fixedness of her gaze. 

“ I was thinking,” she answered, with a smile, followed 
by a sigh, “that these would melt away in the blaze of 
light. I have seen the flowers sparkling with dew-drops, 
and, when the morning sun shone on them, the dew-drops 
vanished. I feel like one of those flowers shining with 
gems, and I am looking to see them fade away.” 

It was long before Clarence could induce her to quit 
his arm in society, and accept the protection of another. 
He told her the world had claims upon them, that they 
would be thought selfish and exclusive, that they must 
siometimes separate and endeavor to contribute to the 
happiness and enjoyment of others. There was a friend of 
Clarence, the same who had accompanied him in the boat 
when he first beheld the young recluse, who was always 
near them, and whom Blanche preferred to the strangers 
who solicited her regard. His name was Julian, and 
there was something very charming in the sportive grace 
of his manner, and in the animation and brightness of his 
countenance. He delighted in calling forth the original 


THE LOST DAUGHTER, 37 

and guileless remarks of Blanche, and in observing the 
changes of her soft, gazelle-like eyes. 

“I wonder I had forgotten you,” she said, when he had 
been dwelling on the moment when he and Clarence first 
beheld her reclining on the bank, and imagined her some 
stray child of Paradise. “Now, when I look upon you, I 
see you are almost as beautiful as Clarence. I thought 
be must be different from the sons of men. Indeed, I be- 
believed him an angel. Now, it seems to me, there are 
many angels, though none so fair as he.” 

The cheek of the young man flushed with pleasure at 
this openly avowed admiration, but such was the heavenly 
innocence of the speaker, he dared not exhibit the delight 
he felt. 

“Why did Father Angelo tell me there was so much sin 
in the world ?” she asked. “Sin is such a dark and dread, 
ful thing, it must throw a shadow on all around it. Every, 
thing I see looks bright and beautiful ; every face wears a 
smile. If there were sin, there would be sorrow. And 
yet,” added she, looking thoughtfully upward, “I hear no 
one speak of God. I fear they do not remember Him. I 
hear no prayers ascending round me, no incense of praise 
going up. At home He was in all our thoughts. His 
name forever on our lips. Why are all silent here ?” 

“In the world the deepest thoughts of the heart are 
not spoken. We think the name of God too holy to be 
breathed in a promiscuous crowd. We worship Him in 
the great churches, and pray to Him in the solitude of our 
closets.” 

“ Father Angelo says life should be one long prayer, 
and every breath we draw one of thanksgiving and praise. 
Oh 1 it was far easier tb think of God near that lone rock 
in the presence of good Father Angelo, who always had 
heaven in his heart, than in this bright and beautiful 
world. It is sweet to live here, but I would pray to die 
there.” 

This spotless simplicity, this pure heavenly-mindedness, 
could not be kept perfectly uncontaminated in the worldly 
atmosphere she now breathed. The deep and ardent 
concentration of her thoughts on Clarence became gradu- 
ally diffused on surrounding objects. She loved him 
still, but she was no longer sad and miserable when he 


38 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


left her side. She saw him now among the young and 
noble of his sex, at i he no longer shone in ra/liant supe- 
riority, as when his blooming youth was contrasted with 
the hoary age of Father Angelo. He had tried to teach 
her to repress her love, and to wean her from her too 
clinging trust in him, before the eyes of others, and, in 
obeying his will, she learned to listen with pleasure to 
the language of admiration, and to blush and smile at 
her own loveliness. The images of the lonely hermit- 
age, of the venerable Father Angelo, and the affectionate 
Naomi, grew more faint and distant, aii t a dim haze 
floated over the clear heaven of her faith. 

Clarence, who at first beheld with pride and delight the 
admiration she inspired, and whose only fear was that she 
should love him too well before the eyes of the world, be- 
gan to tremble lest his instructions should be too faith- 
fully obeyed. He saw those eyes, which had hung upon 
him with such fond idolatry, wander to meet the beaming 
glances of others, and the excitement of gratified vanity 
brighten with unhealthy radiance the vestal roses of her 
cheek. A vague, painful, but unacknowledged jealousy 
stole gradually into his heart. He began to watch her, 
and to look upon her with a clouded brow, while she, 
meeting less sunshine in his eyes, sought more earnestly 
for it in the eyes of others. Like twilight shadows im- 
perceptibly commencing, yet slowly, certainly deepening 
into the gloom of night, the light cloud spread and dark- 
ened, and they sat within its shade, and felt a chillness 
creeping over them, yet never said to each other, “ Are 
not our hearts growing cold ? And why does the house- 
hold warmth depart 

It was strange that Blanche, in the singleness and sim- 
plicity of her nature, did not ask Clarence the cause of 
ais estrangement. But, while her thoughts seemed trans- 
parent as glass in all things else, they were opaque on 
this. Perhaps an instinctive feeling of wrong within her- 
self, an innate sense of having lost something of her 
original holiness of spirit, a consciousness that her wild, 
idolatrous love was assuming a character so comparatively 
calm as by contrast to appear i 7 her indifference, made 
her dread an explanation of his altered manner. Per- 
haps, too, a dread that his love was fading, and that 

\ 

‘\ 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


39 


dark prophecies of Father Angelo were about to be ful* 
filled, more than all contributed to this strange reserve. 
Then the pride and delicacy inherent in the bosom of 
woman closed her lips to the utterance of complaint. A? 
yet no word had been spoken with ungentle tongue, no 
sentiment expressed that breathed of harshness ; but there 
was a mutual conviction that something had come be- 
tween their hearts, something cold and foreign ; but this 
was expressed only by the averted eye and the changing 
cheek. But the smouldering fire soon found vent, and 
arrowy words, winged by passion, fastened in the heart. 

One evening Blanche remained at home, and suffered 
Clarence to go to some scene of pleasure without her 
companionship. She felt as if she would be happier 
alone than by his side, with the growing fear that his heart 
was wandering from her. And now the novelty, the in- 
toxication of her feelings had subsided ; now she was 
accustomed to the incense that everywhere greeted her, it 
was losing its power to charm. She was beginning to 
feel desolate and oppressed. She remembered the Eden 
morning of her love, and sighed at the retrospect. She 
had tasted of the tree of experience, and found its fruits 
bitter to the taste. She recalled the sweet tranquillity of 
her life when, embosomed in the shades of the hermitage, 
her days glided on unruffled by passion or fear, and won- 
dered why love must begin in rapture and end in sorrow. 
She had said to Clarence she would rather remain alone ; 
and yet, when he turned away without urging her to 
accompany him, she felt regret and disappointment. Hi* 
dark eye rested upon he; for a moment with a peculiar 
expression. 

“ Is it, indeed, alone that you wish to be, Blanche 
asked he ; “ or is it not rather that you are weary of be- 
ing with me 

“ Weary, oh no !” she replied. “But I am weary of 
being abroad. I am tired of trying to be like other people, 
and of forgetting what I am myself. Indeed, I some- 
times think I am not myself; that the Blanche of Rock* 
rest is no more, and a strange, cold, unnatural being come 
in her stead.” 

“ Do you indeed feel so ?” said herhuwsband, approach- 
ing her with a lighted countenance. “ Then do not try to 


40 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


banish her. Be still the Blanche wham I first knew, and 
attempt not to imitate the follies you condemn and 
despise.” 

Blanche lifted up to him her dove-like eyes, with a look 
of gentle reproach, though a feeling of self-blame again 
bowed them down. 

“ It was to please you,” she cried, “that I have endea- 
vored to be like others. I have learned to hide my soul 
and to seal ray lips when I felt my heart gushing too 
freely ; and I have tried to laugh when I was not merry, 
and seem delighted when I am sad ; and yet — and yet” — 
she added, with a sigh — “ it seems as if I had lost all my 
own, and gained nothing from others. Oh, Clarence, I 
often wish for the wings of a dove, that I might fly back 
to the peaceful shades of Rockrest I” 

“Fold your wings on my heart, my gentle dove,” ex- 
claimed Clarence, drawing her to his bosom with the pas- 
sionate tenderness which jealousy had vailed, but not ex- 
tinguished. “ Your home is here. Forgive me all cold- 
ness and estrangement. Forgive me if I have been a 
faithless guardian of too dear a treasure. I feared' the 
world was become my rival ; that the voice of admiration 
was sweeter to your ear than the accents of my love. I 
see, I feel that I have wronged you. The whiteness of 
your spirit is unstained. It was the shadow of my own 
that darkened.” 

Blanche, who felt as if a cold avalanch* had suddenly 
fallen from her heart, clung to his bosom, which she deluged 
with her long-repressed tears. All wildly as she wept, she 
had never felt so deep a happiness. A feeling of bliss- 
ful security from some mysterious, impending danger 
settled like the lull of the tempest on the storm-lashed 
billows. 

“ Oh, do not leave me !” she cried, when at last he rose 
to depart. “ I feel as if my guardiai angel were forsaking 
me.” 

“ Then why not go with me ?” 

“ I cannot go out of myself to night. My thoughts 
are too precious; they make me too happy. There would 
be tears in my eyes which others would see, and think me 
sad, while the bright smiles in my heart would be too deep 
for show.” 


THE LOST DAUGHTER 


41 


And thus, in love and trust, they parted ; he to lulfiU 
an engagement with a friend, who had promised to meet 
him at the gay gathering — she to meditate on the fullness 
of her reborn joy and content. 

‘‘ I will soon return,” said he, looking back upon he^, 
with one of those lambent smiles which always played like 
summer lightning on her soul. 

Where were the arrowy words, which, winged by the 
hand of passion, were destined to hang quivering in 
memory^s core till it festered and bled, making an irreme- 
diable wound ? They were not yet formed in the red hot 
forge of jealousy, that furnace where sevenfold heat ia' 
always burning. 

Blanche remained in a kind of ecstatic reverie, wonder- 
ing if she were not in a dream, closing her eyes to shut 
in her blissful thoughts, ‘then opening them and looking 
softly, tremblingly around, as if to see if there were no 
shadows lingering near, ready to roll back on the morning 
brightness of her happiness. 

With a sudden impulse, she slided from the sofa on 
which she was seated, and, reclining on the carpet in tho 
same careless, childish, graceful manner she used to do 
under the old oak tree, threw her arms across a low foot- 
stool, and leaned upon them her warm and roseate cheek. 
Excitement had subsided into depth and quiescence ; the 
stillness of the apartment fell slumberously upon her, and 
the lids so lately moist with tears, gradually closed under 
their dewy weight. She was a child again, and dreamed 
she was on the margin of the stream that had been the 
mirror of her childhood, and that she saw the snowy locks 
and august figure of Father Angelo reflected from its 
glassy surface. His voice murmured in her ear, and glided 
like a deep rill into the fountain of her feelings. She 
smiled, and stretched out her arms in sleep, and the move- 
ment partially awakened her. Again the voice murmured 
in her ear, and her slumbers melted away. Starting, and 
raising herself on one elbow, while she pushed back the 
loosened ringlets from her brow, she beheld a figure kneel- 
ing at her side, far different from Father Angelo’s, for it 
was adorned with all the graces of youth. 

“Jilianl” she exclaimed, passing her hand over hef 


42 


THE LOSr DAUGHTEE. 


eyes, as if to clear away the mists of vision, “ Julian, is it 

TOU ?” 

Julian had those sportive manners which made it irapos- 
for the most ultra devotee of formality to preserve 
the stiffness of ceremony in the atmosphere which he 
breathed. Blanche had always admired him next to Clar- 
ence ; and wherever she went, if left by Clarence to the 
guardianship of comparative strangers, she felt a glow of 
delight at his approach she was too artless to conceal. 
While he, satiated with the artificial sweets of society, 
turned to her pure and sparkling simplicity for refreshment 
and repose. Lately, she had observed that the cloud on 
the brow of Clarence grew darker when Julian was near 
her. Sometimes the warm smile which Julian’s gay sallies 
called to her lips was suddenly frozen there,, by a glance 
from the darkening eye of Clarence, meeting her suddenly 
through an opening in the crowd, and she felt for the 
moment sick and wretched, and dreading she knew not 
what. The crowd would close together, the dark cloud 
vanish, the sparkles of wit and gayety again coruscate, 
and the sweet smile that had been hiding in roses came 
timidly forth from its glowing ambush to illuminate her 
face. 

Now, surprised in the act of sleep, in which, though 
there was no guilt, there was innocent shame, she laughed 
and blushed at his attitude of mock reverence — laughea 
all the more readily for the tears which she had previously 
shed. She thought not of changing her partially recum- 
bent position ; for she had been dreaming that the old oak 
boughs were rustling above her and the grassy carpet 
of Rockrest beneath her, and the illusion was not yet 
dispelled. 

“You look now as you did when I first beheld you,” 
cried Julian. “ I never shall forget that moment.” 

“Nor I either,” answered Blanche, thinking of Clarence, 
and a faint sigh died on her lips. “But why are you 
here?” she added. “I thought you were with Clar- 
ence.” 

“I left him in the festive throng,” he replied. “But 
the scene bad no charm for me, since you were absent. I 
Btole away unperceived, and, being ushered into this apart 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 43 

uient, became for a little while the guardian of your slum- 
bers.” 

All at once, Blanche remembered the cloud she had so 
often seen on the brow of Clarence when the Toice of 
Julian was in her ear, and she made a movement to rise ; 
'but the door was thrown open simultaneously, and Clar- 
ence entered, with a dark fire burning in his eyes, to which 
the glances yet trembling in her memory were summer sun- 
beams. 

His sudden entrance, stormy countenance, and defiant 
air, struck Blanche with such terror that her limbs were 
paralyzed. She attempted to rise, but powerless as the 
bow whose string has snapped asunder, leaned against the 
side of the sofa, with joined hands and pallid cheeks. 
Julian rose, and, while his face reddened and his brow* con- 
tracted, he returned the haughty glance of Clarence with 
an eye fierce and unquailing. 

“ And it was for this you refused to accompany me ?’* 
exclaimed Clarence, every consideration consumed in the 
blaze of passion. “It was for this you cheated me into 
the conviction that you were as innocent as the dove for 
whose wings you were sighing. And I, fool that I was — 
I believed your false words, and, on the faith of your 
Judas kisses, warmed you once more in my heart of hearts. 
Oh, thou specious dissembler, thou mayst well tremble, for 
the hour of retribution is at hand !” 

As he thus gave vent to his stormy emotions, under the 
excitement of the most maddening jealousy, Blanche rose 
upon her feet with the rebound of the sapling after the 
sweep of the whirlwind. It was the first time words of 
anger had ever been addressed to her. Naomi\s voice 
always softened into tenderness, and Father Angelo^s into 
love, whenever directed to their foster-child. At first, in 
trembling terror, she listened to her husband’s wrathful 
denunciations ; but, as he went on, the great law’ of self- 
preservation, implanted as a bulwark to aggression in the 
human breast, resisted his dark charges. She felt she was 
wronged, grievously w'ronged, and the cry of outraged 
innocence rung in her bosom. She, who had always been 
as gentle as the unw^eaned lamb, tender as the brooding 
dove, now stood like the forest empress, confronted in her 
lonely lair. Those fierce and deadly passions inherent is 


44 


THE LOST DAUGUTEE. 


our nature, which had slumbered from her birth, and of 
whose existence she was unconscious, w'ere now w'akened 
and writhing within her with the coil of the serpent and 
the sting of the adder. She was of deadly pallor, for it 
was the incandescence, not the flame of passion that was 
burning in her inmost being. Her eyes glittered with a 
metallic gleam, and the soft curl of her lip was lost in the 
quiver of disdain. Was this .Father Angelo’s Heaven- 
dedicated child, the angel of Rockrest? Alas I the blood- 
hounds were let loose upon her, and the hunted deer turned 
upon its pursuer for a life-struggle. 

** Clarence,” cried Julian, his sportive accents changed 
to stern resolution, “recall your rash words. My coming 
was accidental. Using the freedom of a privileged guest, 
I entered unannounced, and found her sleeping like a 
wearied child ” 

“ And knelt to awaken her !” interrupted Clarence, with 
withering contempt. “ Away with this falsehood ! Take 
that, perfidious friend !” he cried, dashing his glove at his 
feet. “Take it and begone ! You know on what terms 
we meet again.” 

Julian raised the glove and put it in his bosom, then, 
turning to Clarence, said — 

“It is well. You and I understand each other ; but for 
her, if you do not take back every aspersion cast upon her 
spotless innocence, all eternity will be too short for the 
gnawings of remorse and the burnings of despair. Hum- 
ble yourself in the dust before her, or you deserve to lose 
her forever.” 

“ She is lost to me forever I” exclaimed Clarence, with 
such bitter anguish, that Blanche was about to spring to 
his side, when his look deterred her. 

“ Blanche, retire to your room,” said he, in a low, husky 
voice ; “I have business to transact which makes your 
absence urgent.” 

“ Unkind Clarence ! misguided, cruel husband !” she 
cried, the glittering spark going out in her eyes, and a' 
thick haze gathering over them. “What is it you are 
about to do ? Oh, think of Father Angelo 1 Think of 
the white locks of age I Remember his parting words 1” 

“ My memory has kept pace with yours,” he answered 
“Be assured^ I have forgotten nothing. Blanche, I re 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 4*5 

quire your obedience. Once more, I command you to 
retire 1” 

Slowly and mechanically sh3 turned away, left the room, 
Ascended the marble stairs, feeling as if she were changing 
into black marble herself, like the doomed Arabian king, 
entered her chamber, and sat down on a low couch by an 
open window. There she sat motionless as a statue, the 
cool evening air flowing in with dewy chillness on her 
fevered temples. She heard the sound of shutting doors 
and retreating footsteps below, then a stillness like the 
grave succeeded. Blanche sat thus for hours, then sank 
back upon the couch, while the rising wind blew in mid- 
night blasts on her damp tresses and uncovered arms. She 
did not sleep, but she felt not the wind ; she knew not 
that the clouds of night enveloped her. She was not 
conscious when its darkness faded into the gray of the 
morning. The chambermaid, on opening the door to 
awaken her, recoiled at the sight of her cold white face, 
and fixed mournful eyes. She spoke to her, but received 
no answer. She drew near, and respectfully touched the 
pale hand that hung passively over the couch ; it thrilled 
through her like ice. Alarmed, she rang the bell and sum- 
moned the household ; hut the, master was not there! 

A physician was called but the skill of medicine seemed 
unavailing with one who appeared transformed to stone. 
While he was trying in vain to force the congealed blood 
from her veins, whose delicate blue could no longer be 
traced on the snowy surface beneath which they meandered, 
Clarence rushed into the chamber, with wild countenance 
pud disordered hair, exclaiming — 

“ Blanche, I am a wretch ! He is dead I Julian is dead I 
He fell by this accursed hand I Ha I is she dead, too 
he cried, in a low, shuddering tone. “ Have I killed her, 
too ?” 

“No, no,” said the physician, waving him back with 
one hand; “disturb her not, or she may be a victim yet. 
I warn you to fly, young man, ere it be too late. I 
understand all the dark transaction. I will watch over 
hfir^ 

Clarence stood one moment, as if transfixed ; then 
throwing himself by the co ich, on which Blanche reclined, 
he clasped her to his bosom in a passion of grief and 


46 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


remorse, kissed her brow, cheeks, and lips ajyain and again, 
then, kneeling by her, lifted his hands and eyes to Heaven, 
as if supplicating for mercy and forgiveness. 

“ Clarence,” cried the friend who awaited him at the 
door, “come ; for it is death to linger.” 

Finding the unhappy young man obeyed not his reitera- 
ted call, he entered, and, throwing one arm around him, 
with mingled tenderness and authority, bore him from the 
spot, with his bosom saturated with blood. The frozen 
stream in the veins of Blanche thawed in that embrace of 
agony, and, gushing from her bandaged arm, left a dark 
red stain on the breast of the unhappy fugitive. It was 
but too true that Julian had taken up the gauntlet which 
Clarence, in jealous madness, had thrown down, the duel- 
lists had met, and the gay and handsome Julian fell by 'the 
hand of his too late repenting friend. Reason returned 
at the sight of his flowing blood ; and when, in an agony 
of remorse, he cast himself on the ground at his side, 
denouncing himself as a murderer, the expiring Julian 
asserted, with his last breath, the angelic innocence 
of Blanche, deploring his own thoughtlessness and impru- 
dence. 

And thus Clarence fled, with blood upon his hands and 
blood upon his bosom, with despair in his soul, and the 
invisible Avenger of blood behind him. 


CHAPTER lY. 

It was months after the events recorded in the last 
chapter, that the scene we are about to describe was un- 
folded in the life-dream of the young Blanche. 

She was sitting on. a low couch, supported by pillows, 
whose white linen covering could scarcely be distinguished 
from her pale and bloodless complexion. Her eyes, mouru- 
fully riveted on the sky seen through the parted curtains, 
had a still, frozen look, and so immovable was her attitude, 
that the long loose locks that floated over her bosom 


THE LOST OATTOIITER. 47 

Stirred not with the breeze of life that seemed lulled in hef 
breast. 

The door opened, and a stran,G:er entered. He was a 
tall dark man, whose face seemed bronzed with the burn- 
ing sun of a tropical clime. She turned her eyes toward 
him, but no ray of interest or curiosity lighted up the 
frozen calm of their surface. 

“ Think me not an intruder,” said he, gently approach- 
ing her. “ When you learn the motives that bring me 
here, I trust I shall be forgiven.” 

He took a seat near her, and gazed upon her long and 
earnestly : gazed till his sad dark eyes were blinded by 
tears. 

“ You are the adopted daughter of Father Angelo,” 
he cried, “ the pious iiermit of Rockrest.” 

At that beloved and revered name, so long a stranger 
to her ears, she started and trembled. Her bosom heavea 
faintly and heavily, as if under an icy weight, and she 
pressed her white hand upon it, pained by its awakening 
life. 

“Blanche,” exclaimed he, in increasing agitation, “for 
such I am told is the name you bear, you see before yoa 
an unhappy wanderer in search of a long-lost treasure. 
For years on years I have sought in vain for some traces 
of an adored wife from whom I Was separated in early 
youth. I heard your history, and something told me that 
I might discover the child of my lost Adella in you. Y'our 
lineaments and features are hers. My heart throl)S wildly 
w’ith ita new-born hopes. Speak, and tell me your mother’s 
name.” 

“ I know not,” answered Blanche, shrinking nervously 
from the agitated stranger. She dreaded the af proach of 
mankind, and no instinct of nature drew her toward this 
unknown and darkbrowed being. If such, dread and de- 
structive elements slumbered in the bosom of the young 
and handsome Clarence, what terrible passions might not 
dwell beneath an exterior bronzed and withered by the 
intensity of an equatorial sun I 

“Have you no relic of her?” cried the stranger, in a 
voice of passionate ei treaty ; “ nothing that will confirm^ 
the wild-born hopes, which grow stronger as I gaze upon, 
you ? Your voice — your eyes I My God, it must be so.* 


48 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


“I have a letter,” replied Blanche, now effectually roused 
from the torpor of despair, and rising from her couch with 
a strength she was not conscious of possessing, sne opened 
a small cabinet near the couch, and, unclosing a pocket* 
book, drew forth a paper. It looked worn and faded; 
and in the folds the writing was scarcely legible. 

“ It is hers. I should know the characters amidst ten 
thousand scrolls,” exclaimed the stranger. “Blanche, my 
daughter — my child — child of my poor lost Adella !” He 
caught her in his arms, pressed her to his bosom, and she 
felt his hot tears scalding her cheek. 

Terrified and bewildered, Blanche struggled a moment 
in the close embrace. 

Oh ! let me go,” she cried ; “you know not what I 
have suffered. My heart is broken — you hurt it. You 
<crush it, and make it bleed afresh. You deserted my 
mother, even as I am deserted. You drove her to a death 
of violence. Oh ! let me go. You are a man, and must 
be cruel. I fear you — I dread you.” 

Her white and quivering lips suddenly closed, and she 
fell back fainting on his breast. When the attendants 
■entered, summoned by the violent ringing of the bell, they 
were astonished and alarmed at seeing their mistress lying 
insensible in the arms of a stranger, whose dark and foreign 
aspect inspired them with distrust and awe. When Blanche 
came back to life, and saw him who called himself her 
father kneeling by her side, with a countenance of such 
ardent feeling and intense axiety, she felt a sudden revul- 
sion of sentiment toward him, a strange, unaccountable 
reaction. The cold weight that had benumbed her seemed 
melting, and sensibility resumed its sway. She was like 
the drowned person resuscitated. Every nerve was quiv- 
ering and instinct with anguish. A full consciousness of 
the horror, the desolateness of her lot, a sudden horrible 
remembrance of the murdered Julian, the fugitive Clarence, 
the kneeling figure of the former, the withering accusa- 
tions of the latter — all the events of the last few months 
•swept instantaneously across her mental vision. The 
thought of a protector, a father, a friend — one who could 
bear her back to the ari.is of Father Angelo, to the shelter 
‘Of Rockrest — rose all al once, like the breaking of dawo 
>after a starless night. Could he look w’'^ luch love on 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


4 $ 

ber if he really had heartlessly deserted her mother ? Had 
he not said he had been a wanderer years on years in 
search of his lost treasure ? Clarence too was a wanderer 
on the face of the earth, with the brand of blood on his 
soul. Must she not pity the wanderer ? Could she re- 
pulse her own father ! Would not God forsake her in hii 
wrath if she broke one of the canons His own finger had 
written ? 

“ Father,” she cried, turning and laying her head con- 
fidingly on his shoulder, “ forgive me — my reason has been 
drowned in unshed tears.” 

The tears so long locked in frozen apathy here burst 
forth, and she wept till her very being seemed dissolved — 
wept, like an infant, on the bosom from which she had so 
lately recoiled. 

Rheinthus, for such was the name of the stranger, told 
her the history of his life, which we will condense in few 
words. It was a tale of love and sorrow ; of parental 
harshness, filial disobedience, passionate struggles for 
independence, resulting in wealth which, finding none to 
share with him, hung upon him a curse instead of a bless- 
ing. He was the only son of opulent parents, and he 
loved a lovely but indigent girl, whom he clandestinely 
wedded. Soon after the marriage, he was urged by a rich 
uncle to go to India, where an opportunity offered of 
making a splendid fortune. Eagerly accepting a proposi- 
tion which promised him independence and release from 
parental despotism, he left his young and unacknowledged 
bride, in the hope of a speedy return. This was retarded 
by the lingering illness and death of his uncle, who left ' 
him the heir of his immense wealth. She, a wife, without 
the protection of a husband’s name, became a mother, and, 
discarded by her own parents, in the extremity of her 
despair clasped her infant in her arms, and sought the 
princely mansion of his father. From his door she was 
rudely driven, and, believing herself forsaken by him she 
loved, from his protracted absence, which had long since 
awakened the most agonizing doubts and fears, she wan- 
dered without any haven in view, till she heard of Father 
Angelo’s world-secluded home, and resolved to commit 
her infant to his guardianship, whii** herself plunged 
uncalled nto the abyss of eternity. 


60 


THE LOST iiAUGHTER. 


The husband returned, wealthy beyond his most sanguine 
hopes, to hear that his wife and child had been turned 
pitilessly from his own father’s door, to search for them 
with unavailing efforts, and at last to resign himself to the 
hopelessness of his despair. From clime to clime he 
dragged his heavy and w’eary heart. About the time of 
the death of Julian and the flight of Clarence, he paused 
in his travels in the town where Blanche resided. The 
hundred tongues of rumor were busy with the history of 
her life, and the widowed, childless Rheinthus felt a con- 
viction, almost amounting to certainty, that the foundling 
of Rockrest and this lost daughter were’ one. Days, 
weeks, and even months glided by before Blanche was 
allowed to leave the chamber she had sought with the 
arrowy words of Clarence quivering in her heart. At 
length, he obtained admittance, and the result has been 
told. 

A few weeks after the restoration of Blanche to her 
father, the Arctic dove was seen winging its way over the 
Olue waters that laved the shore of the hermitage. The 
gray and moss-crowned rock, the aged oak, the green 
solitude of the young oaken thicket — all remained un- 
changed ; but in herself — what a mighty transformation 
was wrought! She had gone forth a guileless, saintly, 
blessed child ; she returned a heart-crushed, smitteii, 
blighted woman. She went forth a scarce unfolded flower, 
sparkling with the dews of the morning ; she came back 
a faded blossom, bearing a dark spot on its petals, that 
told of the gi»awings of the canker-worm in their folds. 

Leaning back in her father’s arms, sjie fixed her eyes on 
the hoary summit of the rock, on which a white fleece of 
summer clouds was softly resting, and it seemed to her 
that she could see the wings of her guardian angel there, 
turning their silvery plumage to the light. 

“ Oh 1 my forsaken God,” she cried, in the depths of 
her soul, “ I return to thy altar. I bring thee a wounded 
and bleeding, a broken and contrite spirit. 0 God, reject 
it not 1” 

When she stepped upon the grassy bank, from whose 
gentle slope she could see the low walls of the hermitage, 
a cold dew' gathered on her temples. What if Father 
Angelo were dead * She looked in vain for a glimpse of 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


51 


his gray ‘robed and ancestral form. He was wont to walk 
abroad in that hour to worship God in a “temple not 
made with hands.” In silence she led the way to the 
cabin, sighing as the long grass rustled around her, 
thinking it whispered of graves. She stood in the en- 
trance of the cabin, and an irrepressible cry escaped her 
lips. Extended on a couch near the open window, through 
which he could gaze through the “ golden vistas” of sun- 
set into an inner heaven, lay that beloved and revered 
form she remembered in undecaying grandeur and time- 
defying strength. His locks could not be whiter than 
they were when she last saw them gilt with sunbeams, 
representing in his towering height and snow-crowned 
brow the Mont Blanc of his race; but now they fell life- 
lessly over his sunken temples, their silver lustre dim and 
defaced. At the sound of that thrilling cry, he turned, 
his eye toward the door, and beheld the pallid and altered 
countenance of his adopted child. 

“My Blanche, my child, my darling, my lamb I” he ex- 
claimed, extending his arms from the bed, and leaning 
feebly forward. 

“ Oh, my father,” she cried, springing into his embrace, 
and pillowing her head on his bosom, “you told me, if 
the storm arose and the lightning flashed, I should find 
shelter again in these beloved arms. Hide me, hide me 
forever in their sacred fold.” 

“ And is it even so, my child ?” said the aged saint, 
passing his hand .fondly over the bright locks, that fell 
sweeping over his breas.t. “ Dost thou come like the re- 
turning prodigal, weary of the husks of earthly pleasure, 
and hungering for the unleavened bread of our Heavenly 
Father’s board ?” 

“ Peace, peace, 0 father 1 I pray but for peace. Hope 
and joy are dead. All I ask is rest, rest from the strife 
of human passions.” 

“ Peace dwelleth with God ; “ I will remember the years 
of the right hand of the Most High,” cried the hermit, 
looking reverently upward. “Peace,” he added, “was 
the last legacy of our adorable Redeemer to his mourning 
disciples. The soul that remains true to its divine espou- 
sals basks in eternal sunshine. The clouds roll far below 
Oh, my Blanche, would that these dying arms could beai 


62 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


thee even now to the footstool of eternal Peace I But 
who is this ?” cried he, observing, for the first time, the 
stately form of Rheinthus, who stood near the door, un- 
willing to intrude on the first moments of a meeting so 

sad. 

“ It is my father,” answered Blanche, rising, and taking 
the hand of Rheinthus, and leading him to the bedside. 
' He never forsook my mother. He has sought her sorrow- 
ing through the world. He has come to weep over her 
grave.” 

“ Then you will not be left comfortless and unprotected 
God be praised I But Clarence, my daughter — ” 

“ Spare me now, father. To-morrow I will tell all.” 

Naomi, who had gone to the spring for water, entered 
at this moment, and wept for joy at beholding her darling 
once more, and then wept for grief at the sight of her 
wilted bloom. 

Blanche dared not ask Father Angelo why he was lying so 
pale and apparently helpless there. As it seemed to her that 
he had never known youth, so it appeared that he could 
never experience decay. He seemed too grand, too strong, 
too much like her idea of the Deity to die. She had never 
looked on death in the human form ; but she had seen 
the wounded bird fall quivering to the ground, then stiffen 
and remain pulseless and still. She had seen the flowers 
of summer and the leaves of autumn wither and turn to 
shriveled scrolls ; and she had seen also the tree of the 
forest scathed by lightning, and fall, a blasted corpse, in 
the midst of the green woods. Father Angelo’s enfeebled 
and prostrate form reminded her of those ruins of nature, 
and she felt a conviction that he too was passing away. 
He had taught her to look upon death as the birth of 
eternal life, upon the grave as a bed whose curtains were 
the skies, whose pillow the bosom of the Saviour. But 
she knew that death was still and cold, and the grave dark 
and cold, and there was mystery and awe in the thought. 

Father Angelo knew that, like the patriarchs of old, he 
was about to sleep with his fathers. He had but one wish 
on earth, and that was to see the child of his adoption 
before he departed hence and was seen no more. No 
disease racked h'.s frame or enfeebled the glorious strength 
of his intellect. He had reached the goal of life, not a 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


53 


jaded traveler panting wit^h the heat and burden of the day, 
but a girded pilgrim, rejoicing in the prospect of calm 
repose. 

Rheinthus either lingered by the grave of his wife, or 
wandered on the banks of the stream, whose melancholy 
gurglings seemed still to tell of her sad doom, while 
Blanche clung to the side of him from whom she knew 
she was soon to be separated. All her early feelings of 
devotion rekindled in this holy and intimate communion. 
The spark from heaven once more descended on the altar 
of her heart, and the smoke and flame of the sacrifice went 
up from its ruined shrine. 

As Father Angelo drew near his last hour, he seemed 
to have glimpses of futurity flashing with glory on his soul. 
Like Moses on the heights of Nebo, he beheld the green- 
fields and sunlit waters of the promised land. As the 
twilight shadow of death, cold and gray, came stealing 
over him, a supernatural lustre lighted up his eyes, and 
illumined the gathering darkness. 

“ The bridge is sinking,” he cried, and his voice, though 
low, was clear and unb^roken. “ One by one the frail 
planks are giving way. The waters are rising between, 
higher and higher. They are roaring behind, dark and 
unfathomable. They are rolling before, in all the depth 
and grandeur of a coming eternity. But the Son of God 
is walking on the billows, and they fall slumberously away 
into a smooth sea of burning glass.” 

Sometimes the language of Scripture came rushing to 
his memory with the fervor of inspiration. 

“And I looked,” said he, lifting his prophetic eyes to 
heaven,“ and beheld a white cloud, and upon the cloud one 
sat like unto the Son of Man, having on his head a golden 
crown, and in his hand a sharp sickle. Come, thou reap- 
ing angel — the clusters are hanging heavy on the vine 
The grapes are ready for the wine-press. Come, in dyed 
garments from Bozrah, traveling in the greatness of thy 
strength. Thou who bearest the unutterable name, wrap 
me in the blood-stained folds of thy mantle, and I shall 
be made whiter than snow.” 

Blanche listened in speechless awe while he thus com- 
muned with his Savif ur and his God She dared not in- 
terruDt this sublime communion. She hardly dared ta 


54 


TF££ LOST DAUGHTER. 


breatne lest she should disturb the celestial aspirations of 
his departing spirit. But she yearned for some token of 
love from the dying saint. Like Elisha, gazing after the 
chariot wheels of fire that bore away the ascending pro- 
phet, she waited for the backward look of the heart, re- 
tarding for one moment the upward flight of the soul. 

“ Father,” she softly exclaimed, during a solemn pause, 
‘ will you not bless me ere you depart ? Have you not one 
blessing even for me, oh my father ?” 

Laying one cold hand slowly on her head, and feebly 
raising the other to heaven — 

“ I bless thee, my child, my once heaven -dedicated child 
— and thou wilt be blessed. Remain not here when I am 
gone. Go with thy earthly father, and be to him ail thou 
hast been to me. Walk in garments, and keep them 
pure and unspotted from the world. Walk in white — an 
angel of mercy and purity, a daughter of charity, a child 
of grace. Should thine erring and unfortunate husband be 
again restored to thee, remember, unless he who turned to 
crimson the water at Cana shall be present at the reunion, 
the day will come when, instead of the winecup, there shall 
be blood, and for the wedding-garment, sackcloth and 
ashes.” 

At last his eyes gently closed, and an expression of 
ineffable placidity settled on his pallid lips. 

Blanche, w'ho had never looked on death, knew, by the 
awful stillness of repose, that it was there ; but she felt 
no terror — even grief it seemed sacrilege to feel. Her 
father led her from the room, leaving the faithful Naomi 
alone wdth the dead. 

“ Oh 1” she exclaimed, “if this be death, who would 
not welcome its coming ? I have heard him called the 
King of Terrors. Surely he is an angel of peace I” 

And, when she was again admitted into the chamber 
of death, she hung over that form, now involved in the 
solemn mystery of dissolution, with strange delight. Even 
the chill of mortality that penetrated her heart, when she 
pressed her hand on the icy cold forehead, communicated 
more rapture than dread as it thrilled through her frame. 
She kissed the lips, where a smile of more than mortal 
sweetness was lingering. She smoothed the snowy locks 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 55 

back from the majestic brow, now the marble throne of 
everlasting rest. 

“ Oh death she murmured, “ thou art lovely — -oh 
death 1 thou art grand. Now I see that man was made 
in the image of his God. Life may deface it, but death 
restores it. The impress of the Divinity is here. Oh ! 
thou glorious temple,” she added, laying her head on 
Father Angelo’s shrouded breast, “ though the Deity be 
departed, the shrine is holy. I will worship here till the 
ruins are covered with dust.” 

And to dust they were committed, by the side of the 
hapless suicide, beneath the shadow of the moss-grown 
rock. Blanche would gladly have remained longer in the 
solitude of the hermitage, but her father hastened her de- 
parture, and she obeyed his will. She prayed Naomi to 
accompany them; but the faithful creature refused to 
leave the ashes of the master she so much loved. 

“ I have nothing to do with the world,” she said ; “for 
the little time I shall remain on earth, I would not leave 
the grave of my master for the throne of the universe.” 

“ But when you die, Naomi,” cried Blanche, clinging to 
her, as in the early days of her dependence, “ there will 
be no one near to minister to your wants, or to make your 
bed of earth by his side.” 

“Here is my home,” cried Naomi, “and here shall be 
my grave. I shall never leave Rockrest.” 

“ Then I will come again to you, my foster-mother,” 
cried Blanche, giving her a parting embrace. “ And may 
God bless you forever and ever.” 

And Blanche went forth once more into the world, 
bearing in her heart the mission given her by the dying 
hermit. 


CHAPTER y. 

It was probably about two years after the death of 
Father Angelo, that a young man went slowly winding up 
the solitary path that led to the hermitage. His face wa? 
pale and brow sad, ai?.i he looked around with the air 


56 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


of one who was gazing on well- remembered scenes. He 
entered the cabin, now deserted and damp, and shuddered 
at the filmy drapery of cobweb that hung upon the walla 
and swept across the faded pipes of the organ. He 
touched the keys, and recoiled at the cold touch and 
mournful sound rising beneath his fingers. The gray 
serge robe of Father Angelo hung near the organ, his 
oaken staff stood in a corner. 

“ She is not here 1’’ exclaimed the young man. “ There 
is nought but desolation and death I Blanche, Father 
Angelo, and Naomi, all gone. No living voice to speak, 
no living ear to listen. There was one grave here before 
How many shall I find now 

With a deep sigh he left the cabin, and sought the path 
that wound round the rock. It was autumn, and the dry 
leaves rustled mournfully under his feet He came to the 
spot where he had once stood with Blanche, by a green 
mound, while she scattered wild flowers over it. It was 
now covered thick with the many-colored leaves of the 
dying season, as well as a hillock near, which heaved higher 
and was of a more irregular form. While he. stood with 
his eyes fixed on this mound, whose length exceeded even 
the six feet bed of earth, the usual inheritance of man, a 
sudden gust of wind blew aside some of the bro (Vn and 
yellow leaves, and he saw, with horror, something like the 
dress of woman. He remembered the dark peasant dress 
of Naomi, and took in at once the mournful history of 
fidelity unto death. Father Angelo had died, and the 
devoted creature, left to pine in solitary grief, feeling her 
last hour approaching, had dragged herself like the faith- 
ful dog to die upon the grave of her master. There was 
no other grave. Blanche was not there, unless she lay 
folded in the same winding-sheet of her adopted father. 
Clarence turned away, when the thought arrested him 
that perhaps life still lingered in that unburied form, life 
which he might perchance recall. Bending down, he care- 
fully gathered the leaves that had fallen thickly over the 
face, till it lay exposed to view. With an exclamation of 
horror, he again dropped them and leaned shivering 
against the rock. 

Oh, the grave is kind I Let man respect it. It hides 
Hk its sunless recess the terrible, the humiliating pr<>cess 


THE LOST DAUGHTEa 


57 


of corraption, the change from beauty to aslies, from the 
glory of life to the dimness and lowliness of dust. Clar- 
ence shuddered at the thought of leaving these poor de- 
caying remains without coffin or burial. But what could 
he do ? What assistance could he obtain in that deep 
solitude ? And ought he, if he could, divorce that hum- 
ble and devoted being from the clay on which her mould- 
ering bosom was closely pressed ? With a feeling of 
tenderness and respect, caused by the remembrance of 
her love, and care for his lost Blanche, he re-entered the 
cabin, took the long gray robe of Father Angelo, and, 
returning to the spot, spread it as a pall over the leaf- 
strewn body. 

Where now should he turn his steps in search of his 
forsaken bride ? He had sought her at his own home, 
and found her not. He had there been told of the coming 
of the stranger, w'ho called himself her father, and of her 
departure with him to Rockrest. Deploring the jealous 
madness which had caused the death of his friend and the 
destruction of his own happiness, and unable to endure 
the anguish of a longer separation, he had ventured to 
return from exile, resolved to bear Blanche with him to 
some foreign land, far from the scene of the fatal tragedy, 
whose remembrance darkened his life. But she was gone 
with her new-found father, without leaving one trace to 
indicate the course she had taken. 

“ 1 have destroyed her love I” cried the conscience- 
stricken husband. “ I wounded her by my suspicions, 
outraged her by my accusations, and crushed her by my 
violence. She no Ipnger lives for me ; but I will follow 
her from land to land and sea to sea, giving up the pursuit 
only with life.” 

Years passed away, and the memory of Blanche grew 
sad and pale, like the tints of the vanishing rainbow. 
Wherever he went he frequented the abodes of wealth and 
the halls of fashion, seeking in vain that fair and childish 
form, whose image, shadowy and unearthly as it now 
seemed, shielded him from the impressions of beauty and 
the allurements of sin. 

He was in Paris. He was w indering near the close of 
day among the tombs of Pere le Chaise, that crowded 
city of the dead. He stood, wi.h arms and pensive 


58 


THE LOST DAUGHTER 


brow, by the tomb of Abelard and Eloise, drawn by th« 
powerful magnetism ol genius, love, misfortune and death, 
wondering if those no t mouldering hearts evei throbbed 
as passionately as his 3wn, and trying to realize the hum- 
bling truth that he toe must lie down in the dust like them, 
less happy, for he must make his last bed in loneliness and 
gloom, and no loving eyes mourn over his doom, no fond 
hand mark with sacred mementos the spot where he lay. 
The myriad spires of the city, crimsoned with the burning 
gold of the setting sun, formed a striking contrast to the 
scene around him. He could see in the distance the 
green line of trees that marked the sweep of the Boule- 
vards, that scene of brilliancy and gayety. Around him 
the dark foliage of the cypress, the weeping boughs of the 
willow, funeral garlands twined around the stones, and 
crosses illuminated by the glow of the west, all spoke of 
the life consecrating, by the most touching acts of tender- 
ness and love, the memory of death. The hum of the great 
city came rolling like a distant cataract to his ears ; but 
the low mournful whisper of the wind through the grass, 
or the long, sweeping funeral branches above him, stole 
into his spirit with a deeper sound. 

While he thus stood self-absorbed by the grave of those 
whose sorrows have perhaps softened too much the mem- 
ory of their guilt, a gentleman and lady approached and 
paused by the monument, apparently drawn by the same 
irresistible attraction to which he himself had yielded. 
The gentleman had a commanding figure and dignified 
bearing, and there was something in his face which spake, 
as plainly as words could utter it, that he was linked to 
the dead by ties as strong as those which bound him to 
the living. The lady was closely vailed, but an air of 
youthful grace and dignity floated round her, like the folds 
of the gossamer web that she gathered from the breeze. 
The gentleman lifted his hat courteously from his head. 
Clarence bowed in return, drawing back at the same time, 
so that they could approach nearer the monument. There 
was something in the gentle, unspeakably graceful move- 
ments of the lady that reminded him of Blanche ; but she 
was taller and of fuller proportions, the hair, which was- 
visible ui der the folds of her vail, was of much darker 
hue, and gentle nan addressed her by the name of 
Adella. 


THE LOST DAUGHTER, 


59 


After lir.gering a raonieiit, they passed on with a grace- 
ful sign of adieu, while Clarence felt an increasing curi- 
osity to behold the features concealed by that nun-like 
vail. He saw a faded rose at his feet. It must have 
fallen from her hand or bosom, and he gathered it up as 
a holy relic. He wished it was something w’hich he was 
authorized to restore, as it would serve as an excuse for 
following her and seeking an introduction. Obeying an 
attraction he could not explain, he traced her footsteps 
and observed something glittering on the ground. It 
was a bracelet with a diamond clasp, composed of jet- 
black hair, braided with mingling tresses of spotless 
white. He was sure it must have fallen from the arm of 
the lady, and that it was a treasure for whose restoration 
she would be grateful. The hair of dazzling white re- 
minded him of the long, prophetic locks of Father An- 
gelo ; but the name engraven on the back of the golden 
setting was Adella, and destroyed the wild hope that for a 
moment flaslied into his mind. 

Hastening his steps so as not to lose sight of the 
strangers, he overtook them soon after they left the inclo- 
Bure, just as the carriage drew up in which they were 
about to enter. 

“ Is not this bracelet yours, madam ?” said he, extend- 
ing it in his hand to the lady, who turned round with a ges- 
ture of surprise at his approach. I found it in the bow»r 
of linden trees, which shade the ashes of De Lille.” 

Holding out one beautiful, ungloved hand, as white as 
alabaster, while she pressed with the other the folds of the 
vail closer to her breast, she said, in a very low and 
sweet-toned voice-.- 

‘'It is indeed mine, and very precious is it to me. I 
can hardly thank yon sufficiently for restoring it to me.” 

“ Shall I reclasp it ?” he ventured to ask ; and without 
waiting for permission, he encircled her fair wrist with the 
gem. It reminded him, in its snowy symmetry, of the arm 
of Blanche, and when he remembered the evening he saw 
ner watching the sparkling brilliants with which she was 
adorned, fearing they would melt aw'ay like dew-drops in 
the sunbeams. Wirh a dee)) sigh, he relinquished the 
hand, which showed no evidence of resentment at his bold- 
ness, when the gentleman accosted him with marked po- 


60 


THE LOST DAUCHTER. 


liteness, and giving him a card bearing his name, requested 
of him the same favor. “Lord Ainsworth.” He had 
learned at his own home the name of the father of Blanche. 
Though the dissimilarity of height and size, and the dif- 
ference in the color of the hair, and in the name of the 
lady, had destroyed his first wild hope with regard to her, 
he could not help associating the idea of Rheinthus with 
this very dark and imposing-looking man. 

“You will call and see us ?” said Lord Ainsworth, as- 
sisting the lady in the carriage and taking a seat by her 
side. “ You will find my address on the card. If I mis- 
take not, we are countrymen as well as strangers in this 
modern Babel I” 

Clarence bowed, the lady leaned her head on the shoul- 
der of the gentleman, as if seized with sudden faintness, 
and the carriage drove rapidly away. 

The next evening Clarence called at the lodgings of 
Lord Ainsworth. 

“My daughter,” said the nobleman, introducing the 
lady now no longer vailed. 

The room was illuminated by shaded lamps, that gave 
a moonlight and subdued lustre to every object ; and seen 
through this soft, hazy atmosphere, the daughter of Ains- 
worth might have been mistaken for a beautiful marble 
statue, clothed with the habiliments of life, so exquisitely 
moulded were her features, so fair and uncolored was her 
cheek. Her hair was parted simply on her brow, and 
braided behind, and the only ornament that relieved the 
simplicity of her dress was the bracelet of mingled jet 
and snow encircling her arm. Fascinated and bewildered 
by her resemblance to Blanche, yet feeling that it was only 
a resemblance, he gazed upon her with an earnestness that 
bowed her glances to the earth. Gradually recovering 
from his strange embarrassment, he entered into convena- 
tion with Lord Ainsworth, in which Adella soon partici- 
pated with grace and intelligence. The evening passed 
away like a dream of enchantment amid the blended charms 
of music and conversation ; for the daughter of Ainsworth 
possessed a voice of celestial melody, and of far greater 
compass and cultivation than that of the young Blanche. 

“You must forgive me,” said he, when he beheld her 
again withdrawing her eyes from his returning gaze. “ But 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 01 

your resemblance to a friend from whom I have been long 
parted, must plead my excuse.” 

“ I trust the association is a pleasing one,” she replied, 
with a faint smile. 

Ah, that smile dispelled the illusion I When Blanche 
smiled it was like bright waters dimpling in the sun. Her 
face sparkled all over in a burst of light and gladness. 
The smile of Adella was pensive, and seemed only to il- 
lume the lips over which it flitted. The innocent counte- 
nance of Blanche was transparent as glass ; every emo- 
tion of her soul was as visible as if it shone through 
crystal. With her long, vailing lashes, Adella curtained 
the windows of her soul, baffling the gaze of curiosity and 
the glance of admiration. Blanche was a creature all 
impulse and passion ; Adella calm and saintly as a virgin 
priestess of the temple of Vesta. 

Long after Clarence was gone, Adella — or, as we lovt 
better to call her, Blanche — sat with her brow leaning on 
her folded hands. She had met him again, the husband 
of her youth, the man she had loved with more than East- 
ern idolatry, from whom she had been so violently sun- 
dered, and whose last words echoing in her ears were more 
terrible than thunder, and sharper than a two-edged 
sword. She had met him again, after long years of sepa- 
ration, herself unrecognized, and tears, bitter and show- 
ering, fell from her eyes over the vanished dream of life. 
No wild pulsations throbbed in her heart, no lightning of 
rapture illumined her soul. She saw him sad, darkened 
by the shadow of remorse, and she pitied him. But the 
bright illusion which had thrown such a glory round him 
was dispelled. She knew him as an erring son of passion, in- 
stead of the angel of light whom she had first worshiped. 

Never perhaps had a human being changed, in the 
same space of time, so much as Blanche. The storm 
which had wrecked her peace had strengthened the fibres 
of her character, and given it deeper root and loftier 
growth. At the death-bed of Father Angelo her spirit 
received a new consecration, and she went forth into the 
world angel-strengthened for its conflicts and trials. Her 
father, himself an accomplished scholar and gifted man, 
supplied her with masters ’a every art and science, while 
travel unfolded for her its mighty volume of instruction 


62 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


Blanche felt as if surrounded by a new creation, where 
forms of beauty and power unknown before enraptured 
her Tision. Yet amidst all the new and glorious influences 
under which her mind was expanding, she never forgot the 
holy mission she had received from the dying Father An- 
gelo. As the heiress of her father’s vast wealth, she felt 
herself the almoner of Heaven’s bounties, and wheiever 
she went she sought out the poor and the afflicted, and 
poured balm and oil into the bleeding wounds of human- 
ity. While her character was thus assuming a pure and 
celestial aspect, her countenance also wore a more heavenly 
and spiritual loveliness. Her almost infantine beauty 
disappeared, and gave place to something more exalted 
and womanly. The shade darkened and darkened in her 
hair and eyes, making her face seem still fairer and purer, 
like the shadows of a moonlight night on the water, 
making the heaven ray more dazzling by contrast. And 
there was something else which contributed more than 
all to destroy the identity of the Blanche of Rockrest with 
the Blanche whom Clarence beheld at the tomb of Abelard 
and Elpise. It was the shade of experience which rested, 
in a soft mist, on the fringes of her eyes, and lingered 
round the paler roses of her lips. The haunting expres- 
sion of the past subdued her features, while devotion cast 
its saintly halo above, and glorified their charms. 

She did not wonder that Clarence had not recognized 
her, though her resemblance to herself had struck him so 
powerfully. Her father, in consequence of the death of 
his father, now bore a titled name, and, according to his 
earnest desire, she had adopted that of her mother. She 
now rejoiced in these circumstances, as they favored her 
present wishes. She could study the character of her hus- 
band, discover if his heart were still true to her remem- 
brance, or if her present self had power to rival her 
former self in his affections. She could ascertain if 
jealousy, ‘‘ cruel as the grave,” still lurked in his bosom, or 
whether, like the arch-serpent of Eden, it had been crushed 
under the feet of the Son of Man ; and, above all, the 
apparently extinguished flame of love might rekindle in 
her own breast. The union his blood-stained hand had 
once severed must be sanctified by love ere it should be 
again renewed ; and that lo 'e, too, hallowed by religion, 


THE LOST DAUGHTER. 


before she could lean upon it as the anchor of the heart, 
sure and steadfast. 

And oh, how she longed that she might love again ! not 
with the blind instinct which drew her to the first form of 
youthful beauty which had ever beamed upon her sight, 
but with that noble sympathy, that electric attraction 
which blends the soul with a kindred soul, till they both 
riwse, as it were, in one cloud of incense unto heaven. 

Weeks glided after weeks, and found Clarence day by 
day the companion of Blanche. Bound by a spell which 
grew stronger and stronger, he lingered at her side, strug- 
gling with a love which he deemed faithlessness to the 
rights of his supplanted wife. The passion he had cher- 
ished for her seemed a fading mirage to the glowing reality 
of his present feelings. He tried to vindicate himself to 
his conscience by repeating that it was her remarkable 
resemblance to Blanche which first attracted and charmed 
him ; but the stern monitor would not suffer its warning 
voice to be stilled. It would whisper, and loudly too, that 
if Adella knew the history of Blanche, he would be forever 
banished from her sight. Every day he tried to summon 
resolution to tell her ; but in her presence he forgot every 
thing but his love of her, and the fatal consequences of 
such a discovery. 

At length he fell sick, worn by the strugglesof contend- 
ing passions, and a week passed without his calling at Lord 
Aimsworth’s. When he came, he was pale and languid, 
and told her he was about to bid her farewell. 

“ So soon V’ said she, the color going out of her lips. 
“ So soon !” 

The crisis of her fate w^as then near. Would he go 
without revealing the love which his every look and action 
■o eloquently expressed ? Would he reveal it without, at 
the same time, declaring the w^edded ties that bound him 
to herself? Had her own love really revived during this 
daily intercourse, and was it the throes of its awakening 
life that now caused her heart to throb so wildly, to ache 
BO deeply ? She trembled for his honor ; she trembled 
at the mighty dependencies which hung on that single 
hour. 

At the sight of her nnrepressed emotion, the imprisoned 
feelings of Clarence burst the r long restraint, and he told 


64 


THE LOST DAUGHTER 


her all his love and all his despair. He related the vsrhole 
history of his life as connected with herself, his jealousy, 
remorse, wanderings, return, fruitless searches ; his visit to 
Rockrest, and subsequent rumblings. Then, with burning 
eloquence, he dwelt upon the new feelings she had inspired, 
his struggles to subdue them, struggles which left him 
only more hopelessly enslaved. 

“ An now,” he exclaimed, casting himself at her feet, 
and seizing both trembling hands in his, “ you know the 
wretch that prostrates himself before you, imploring you 
to have mercy upon him. I am a monster ; for I outraged 
by suspicion and insult the purest and most angelic of 
earth’s daughters. I am a murderer ; for I destroyed with 
deliberate aim the life of my friend. I am a perjured 
villain, who, unworthy of the boon of life, asks only the 
mournful privilege of dying at your feet.” 

As Clarence thus poured out his soul in an agony of 
love and remorse, with his hands firmly grasping hers, and 
his eyes, with all the intensity of passion, riveted on her 
face, the blood, at first slowly, then quickly, then in a 
rushing torrent, spread over her forehead, cheeks, and 
bosom. Even her fingers glowed with the warm, rosy 
light. It was the resurrection dawn of love, the crimson 
hue of its morning twilight stealing over her being. 

“ Clarence,’’ she said, in a low voice, and bending her 
head so that her breath sighed upon his cheek, “ I too am 
bound. My vows are pledged to another — and that 
other ” 

Clarence started to his feet, and gazed upon her as if 
his glance would burn into her soul. Something seemed 
to flash upon him suddenly, electrically. He was weak 
and dizzy. He put his hands to his temples, uttered an 
indistinct exclamation, reeled, and fell. 

How long he remained insensible he knew not, for the 
time was a blank. When he awoke to consciousness he 
was reclining on a couch, whose curtains were partially 
drawn so as to exclude the light from his brow. A figure 
was bending over him that looked more like a hovering 
seraph than an inhabitant of this world. It was clad in a 
white robe, gathered round the waist by a white girdle, 
and flowing down to its feet in long redundant folds. The 
hair of the seeming vision hung loose and mantling over 


THE LOST DATJGHTEB. 


65 

its snowy drapery, its arras of celestial whiteness were 
extended as if to embrace him, and its starry eyes, «‘iisten- 
ing with tears, reflected their lustre on his pallid face. 

For one moment he thought he was in heaven, and that 
the spirit of his child-bride, expanded into the full glory 
of immortal womanhood, was greeting him to its blissful 
abodes. 

“Blanche! Blanche!” he exclaimed, leaning forward 
and opening his arms, “my angel wife ! ray own immortal 
bride I” <; 

■ “Yes, Clarence, Ihy immortal l)rid«‘!” she cried, throw- 
ing herself, in all the abandonment <>f restored affection, 
on the bosom of her husband ; “ for not alone for time are 
our hearts rewedded. The vows I now renew are for 
eternity. Oh, Clarence ! oh, my husband ! the love which 
now rises from the grave of passion is pure, heavenly, and 
undefiled. It is kindred to the divine love which God, 
himself inspires. Clarence, my beloved, is it thus you feel 
for me ? Can you, in this solemn hour of our reunion, 
take me by the hand and say, in the name of the adorable 
Redeemer, that you love me with a full, undoubting trust, 
that you love me with the soul as well as the heart, and 
that you think less of our fleeting wedlock on earth than 
of the everlasting marriage-feast which is prepared for us 
hereafter 

Clarence raised himself from the couch, and, taking the 
hand of Blanche firmly in his own, knelt at her side, and 
with fervor and humility invoked the blessing of Heaven 
on their reunion. 

“ My Christian bride,” he cried, again folding her in his 
arms, “to your holier, purer influence I henceforth and 
forever yield myself. Be my partner on earth, my guide 
to heaven — my companion in Eternity.” 


THE MAIDEN OF JDDEA. 


Homeward the weary warrior bent 
His fDotsteps, from the bannered tent ; 
Triumph was his ; the sword he wore, 

Victory from twenty cities bore. 

Yet not for fame, with life-blood bought, 

Had Gilead’s dauntless champion fought; 

In Heaven’s own panoply he braved 
The battle, and his country saved. 

He gazed where, reddened by the glow, 

The oriental mountains throw. 

When their high-reaching brows arrest 
The rosy tints that gild the west ; 

He saw those native walls afar, 

AVhere beamed the pure and vestal star 
Whose rays of filial beauty shone 
For him, and for her God alone. 

He thought how soon her maiden charm 
Would fill a conquering father’s arms ; 

And as the tide of feeling swept 
O’er his full heart, the victor wept. 

But hark ! what strain of music calls 
The echoes from their rocky halls ? 

More near it floats, in triumph swelling, 

As if some theme of glory telling. 

The parting foliage backward swings. 

Light, as if fanned by fairy wings ; 

And as the trembling leaves divide. 

In the white robes of virgin pride. 

The minstrel maiden meets his glance. 
Weaving her country’s graceful dance. 

While, sweeter as she onward floats. 

She wakes the timbrel’s lofty notes. 

Wild blossoms, that her bright locks wreath#, 
O’er her pure brow their odors breathe; 

( 66 ) 


THE MAIDEN OP JUDEA. 


67 


Yet even their fairest tints disclose 
No blush to match her cheek’s soft rose. 
The deepest blue of starry skies 
Seems deepened in her kindling eyes, 
Whose heavenward radiance now reveali 
All that a chieftain’s daughter feels, 

Who in her warlike sire can trace 
The avenger of an injured race. 

But when her arms of love she flings 
Around his neck, and fondly clings 
To his mailed bosom, why with wild 
And frenzied start, thrust back his child T 
With one loud cry of piercing woe. 

Turn from the light of that sweet brow, 
And writhe, as if the deadly fold 
Of poisonous serpent round him rolled ? 
The memory of his fatal vow 
Flashes like blasting lightning now ; 

That vow, breathed forth on battle-field. 
By victory’s bloody signet sealed. 

As bends the lily, when the wrath 
Of northern winds sweeps o’er its path; 
Just as its fair, unfolding bloom, 

The sun’s parental beams illume ; 

So torn from nature’s dearest stay. 

Pale, trembling, at his feet she lay ; 

While loose, on her reclining head. 

Her unshorn ringlets o’er them spread. 

Jephthah beheld the only flower 
Left to adorn his widowed bower, 

Whose virgin beauty grew so fair. 

It seemed some fostering angel’s care 

Had to this cherished blossom given 

The purity and bloom of Heaven ; 

Drooping, as if a sudden blast 

O’er ner young charms a blight had onft, 

And the dry agony of grief 

Through gushing fountains sought reh'et 

Oh thus,” the melted warrior cried, 

^ Pure from the stains of earthly pride, 
Pure from all sin, the offering be 
Our hearts devote, 0 Lord ! to thee, 

My child and bending down he prest 
The pallid maiden to his breast. 


68 


THE MAIDEN OF JUDEA. 


‘ My blameless child, a fearful doom 
Hangs trembling o’er thy life’s young bloom | 
Though thousand lives I would resign, 

Even for one hour, to ransom thine ; 

Through me my spotless lamb must bleed, 
The altar’s holy flame to feed. 

Oh ! when to Israel’s God I vowed. 

While round me rolled war’s fiery cloud, 

If the Great Spirit of His might 
Led me victorious through the fight. 

What first my glad return would hail. 

To native Mizpan’s rescued vale, 

A votive sacrifice should raise 
The incense of my country’s praise. 

I little thought that thou, the dear. 

The only treasure left me here, 

In whom I’ve garnered all my joys ” 

O’ermastering nature checked his voice, 

And all the human heart can bear 
Of deep, unutterable despair. 

Spoke, in the darkening glance he bent, 

Upon the gorgeous firmament, 

As if its broad, refulgent glow. 

Shone but in mockery of his woe. 

And she, the gentle and the young. 

If iron nerves were thus unstrung, 

Did not her reeling reason fly, 

Her fluttering life-pulse faint and die 
No I while sustained in that dear fold 
Of weeping love, her doom was told — 

A light, like morning’s breaking ray. 

Began o’er her wan cheek to play — 

With triumph kindling in her look. 

Backward the vailing locks she shook. 
Whose waves of amber seemed to throw 
A glory round her lifted brow ; 

And with a calm and heavenly smile. 

As if the altar’s sacred pile 
Already for the victim blazed. 

Her unpolluted hands she raised ; 

Where sleeps m^ father’s manly pride ?• 

The death-devoted maiden cried. 

Oh ! let not tears so weak and vain 
The warrior’s noble cheek distain ; 

Think, what a glorious fate, to be 
A covenant ’twixt my God and the« ; 


THE MAIDEN OF JUDEA. 


69 


Deemed worthy in His holy eye, 

An ofifering, on His shrine to lie, 

While virgin innocence and truth 
Adorn the blossoms of my youth ! 

The whitest lamb of Gilead’s flock 
Is driven from the mountain rock ; 

The fairest flowers of Gilead deck 
The fleecy victim’s snow-white neck, 

When grateful hearts to Heaven would bear 
The incense of devotion’s prayer. 

Then weep not, father ; to thy vow 
A willing sacrifice I bow ; 

I came, with joy’s bright garlands crowned, 
To minstrelsy’s exulting sound. 

As Israel’s daughters wont to grace 
The triumphs of their chosen race : 

Away, this worthless wreath I tear. 

The martyr’s deathless palm to wear; 

Hushed be the timbrel’s echoing swell, 

I go, in music’s courts to dwell.” 

Breathless, she paused — a softer mood 
Her eyes’ unearthly fire subdued — 

And toward her native mountains turning, 
Where the last flames of day were burning, 
The chords of earthly feeling woke 
Their last vibration as she spoke ; 

Yet oh !” she added, “ere my sire 
Shall lead me to the kindling pyre, 

Let me on those green hills once more 
The scenes of early joy explore ; 

There, with the virgin train, who lead 
Their flocks on tenderest herbs to feed ; 
While near the shades. and gushing springs. 
They tune their wild harp’s sounding strings, 
My soul, with penitence and prayer. 

Shall for the solemn rite prepare. 

And when another spring renews 
Its flowery sweets and genial dews, 

The daughters of my tribe shall come 
With wreaths symbolic of my bloom, , 
And mourn me, as a tender hart. 

Pierced by the forest hunt6i‘’s dart. 

Oh ! think not earth’s fond memories ciing, 
To chain my spirit’s mounting wing ; 

But when in Zion’s fairer land, 

1 join the seraphs’ white-robed band 


0 


70 


THE MAIDEN OF JDDEA. 


’Tis sweet to think, where once I smiled, 

They’ll still remember Jephthah’s child ; 

And as yon twilight’s golden ray 
Reflects the vanished beams of day, 

My memory will a light impart, 

To cheer a father’s lonely heart.” 

Thus meek and pure, the lamb was led to slaughte*. 
Thus perished, in her bloom, J adea’s daughter. 


THE PEA-GREEN TAET'ETA. 


Estelle, a little older than when she last appeared be- 
fore the reader at the wedding-feast of her sisters, waa 
■seated at the side of her ancient aunt. It was a dark, 
Tainy night, and the child, as she looked from the hearth 
to the windows, against which tlie sere leaves drifted, 
thought'of her far away sisters, Emma and Bessy, and was 
sad. She was getting to be a little more womanly in her 
tastes — more literary — was especially fond of romantic 
tales of love and chivalry, and, consequently, did not draw 
quite so largely from Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag as she 
formerly did. Yet there were moments, such as the pre- 
sent, when that venerable receptacle seemed to her, as in 
the morning of childhood, the hidding-place of the genii. 

“Aunt Patty,” said she, opening the closet, mounting 
a high chair, taking down the memorable bag, and de- 
positing it in Aunt Patty’s lap, “ tell me the history of 
some of your scraps, to-night. There is a plenty left here, 
though I made that large patch-work counterpane, so 
carefully put aside. Aunt Patty, I do believe your scraps 
are like the Widow’s cruise. You may take ever so many 
out, yet there are ever so many left'” 

“ Yes, yes,” replied Aunt Patty, trying to draw up the 
contracted sinews of her neck, but suffering it to fall pain- 
fully again toward the left side, “ when so many nice, 
friendly fingers are filling it up all the time, it isn’t strange 
that the bag, like the cruise, keeps full. Let me see 
These are most all new scraps. Somehow or other, I 
can’t remember about these, as I can the pieces given me 
long ago. The people, now-a-days, it seems to me, don’t 
■do as many smart things, nor say as many smart sayings, 
as they did in Parson Broomfield’s day. They are more 
alike, as it were, and what you hear of one will do about 

C71) 


72 


THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 


as well for another. There is nothing to remember, and 
I know I’ve got as good a memory as any body of my 
age ever did have. I don’t believe there is one single 
thing that happened when I was a girl, and that I then 
knew of, that ever escaped me.” 

“I remember every thing that Frank says and does, 
Aunt Patty. I wonder to hear you say that the people 
were smarter when you were young than they are now. 
Mr. Selwyn said the world was growing better and wiser 
every day. I’m sure I grow wiser every day myself.” 

It was amusing to see the air of precocious wisdom that 
dignified Estelle’s blooming face. Aunt Patty smiled 
benignantly, fully believing all that she asserted of herself, 
though somewhat doubting the truth of Mr. Selwyn’s 
remark, and leaning forward on her crutch, put her 
trembling right hand into the bag. 

“How in the world,” she exclaimed, drawing a piece 
of pea-green colored taflfeta from the rainbow shreds on 
the top, “ how in the world did that get here, mixed up 
with the new scraps ? This belongs to old-time history. 
Well, well ; this does carry me back, sure enough, a long 
way, full fifty years, if not more, when I saw Patience 
Hilliard dressed out in that fine smooth taffeta, looking so 
fine and pretty, just as if she stepped out of a new band- 
box. Poor Patience 1 I wonder if she is alive now.” 

“What makes you call her poor, aunt Patty ? I should 
think anybody who wore such a fine rich silk as this, 
ought to be rich.” 

“ There’s such a thing as shining in borrowed plumes, 
child, as you shall hear presently. And that reminds me 
of a bad habit little girls have now-a-days. Borrowing 
each other’s finery and tricking, themselves out in each 
other’s rings and gew-gaws, like the Jackdaw in JEsop’s 
Fables. Don’t do any such thing, darling. It will be 
sure to bring you into trouble. Now, Patience Hilliard 
was a poor girl, and used to dress, at home, in homespun, 
and nothing finer than calico abroad. Her mother got 
her living by spinning and weaving, and making butter 
and cheese, and such like. Patience was right industrious 
and helped her mother as much as she could, so that she 
got her name up for being the smartest girl for work any- 
where about. She was as pretty a girl, too, as one want*- 


THE PEA -ilREEN TAFFETA. 


73 


to look upon, and always at; neat as a new-bound hymn book. 
It was a pity she got it into her head to be proud of her good 
looks and ashamed of her nice, homely dress. But that 
wasn’t so much her fault, as the silly folks that were always 
flattering and fooling her. She used to carry the butter 
to the stores, all stamped up with flowers and devices, 
and I remember it was the nicest butter I ever saw in my 
life. Mrs. Hilliard had a nice, green clover patch behind 
the house, and her cows didn’t starve, I assure you. .All 
her butter was as yellow as gold, and it turned into gold, 
too. The young men who stood behind the counters, 
used to praise Patience’s red cheeks and bright eyes more 
than they did the butter, so I’ve heard say, till she set 
such store by her beauty that she took mincing steps and 
talked as if cotton was in her mouth. In those days we 
used to have quilting frolics, and many times they were 
worth a dozen such stiff, formal parties as they have 
now.” 

“ Why didn’t we have a quilting frolic. Aunt Patty, 
when the scrap counterpane was quilted ? It would have 
been such a nice opportunity.” 

“Well, I don’t know, child. I suppose it is because I 
ani too old to think of such things, and Mrs. Worth, my 
niece Emma, that was, don’t care about that kind of party 
gathering. When she was a young girl, she never did. 
She never liked forfeits.” 

“ Do grown folks ever play forfeits, ‘Aunt Patty ?” 
asked Estelle, opening her blue eyes in astonishment. “I 
thought it was children’s play.” 

“ There’s many a grown-up child, darling, and life is 
pretty much made up of children’s play. Well, I was 
talking about quiltings. If they are old-fashioned now, 
they were all the rage then. ‘ The young men — they used 
to call them sparks — always came after the quilting was 
over, and the fiddler came, too, and they wound up with 
a dance. Now, one of our neighbors had a mighty great 
quilting, and invited ever so many young people to it. 
Though I was always so lame and awkward, and couldn’t 
dance, I could use my needle curiously, and they were 
always glad to get me at the quilting frame. I was never 
thinking about the sparks like Jie other girls, ana kept 
Bteadier to my work.” 


74 


THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 


“Why, Aunt Pa.ty I What’s the reason you never 
thought of them V 

“ Because there is not one in a hundred worth thinking 
about, and they are all after beauty and finery, and havn’t 
a word to fling away to a poor cripple like me.” Now, 
Patience never wanted for admirers, though she would 
have been better off without them, for had it not been for 
them she never would have thought of doing ihe mean 
trick I am going to tell you about. Just before the great 
quilting. Patience went t> take care of a lady who was 
sick — a very rich and beau ■ ‘al lady — who wore the pret- 
tiest clothes of any one in wn. She never went to any 
of the gatherings, for she ed, as it were, above them ; 
and yet she was so good a id kind to the poor, nobody 
called her proud. Patience couldn’t come to the quilting ; 
but when the dance began, she came rustling into the 
room in a beautiful, shining pea-green taffeta, just like 
this. I could hardly believe my own eyes, for I’d never 
seen her dressed in any thing finer than calico before. She 
had artificial flowers in her hair and gold ear-rings in her 
ear, all set with pearls. She swam about, for all the 
world like a peacock with its tail flashing in the sun, and, 
really, if it hadn’t been for the astonishment one felt, one 
couldn’t help thinking she was wonderful pretty. There 
happened, (I can’t conceive how, but he was sure enough 
there,) there happened to be a young frenchman there, 
who danced as light as a butterfly, and had teeth as white 
as polished ivory. He took a wondrous fancy to Patience, 
whom he probably thought the finest lady in the room. 
Everybody was whispering about Patience and wondering 
where her fine dress came from. 

“It isn’t hers,” said one, “anymore than it’s mine. If 
it is, she stole the money to buy it, for butter and cheese 
never manufactured that.” 

“ I don’t believe no such thing,” says I, thinking it 
right to take her part, because they were all talking behind 
her back, which was mean and unchristian -like. “ Patience 
always was an honest girl and her mother brought her up 
well. It must be a present to her. I dare say Mrs. 
Slialer gave it to her. That was the name of the sick lady ; 
5*id I really did believe it, though I didn’t think of it be- 
fore I said it. Patience was a belle that night if there 


THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 


75 


evei was one. Her cheeks were as red as damask roses, 
and her eyes sparkled like live diamonds. Yet she looked 
uneasy-like, as if she didn’t want us to follow her too close, 
or watch her too hard. I tell you what, Estelle, it must 
be an awful feeling when anybody does any thing thej 
don’t want found out ; but, remember, the Lord finds out 
everything we do, just as easy as if it were done in broad 
sunshine, no matter how secret and dark we may be. 
Toward the close of the evening, when Patience was 
dancing more like a spirit than a human being, her dress 
caught a nail and tore a great ugly place right in the front 
breadth. I thought she would have gone raving distracted 
about it. Everybody got round her to see what was the 
matter.” 

“ This is a bad accident,” said the young Frenchman, 
who was dancing with her. 

“No, sir,” she cried, sobbing like a baby, “it is a pea- 
green taffeta.” 

Every body laughed, and that only made her cry the 
more. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her ; so I told her 
if she would come into another room with me I would try 
to mend it for her as well as I could. I was. always con- 
sidered a good hand at darning, though one wouldn’t 
think so, to see my poor fingers. I made her take off the 
dress, and set to work in right good earnest, and it really 
looked so nice one hardly could tell where the rent was. 
But one of the girls that belonged to the house, and I do 
believe she did it out of envy and spite, insisted upon 
pressing it with a warm iron, to flatten the stitches, and 
she scorched it as brown as my snuff. There was a piece 
as large as the palm of my two hands scorched right out. 

“ Oh I mercy,” cried Patience, turning as white as a 
snow-flake, and wringing her hands, “ what shall I do ? 
I’m ruined and undone — I wish I was dead — I wish I’d 
never been born.” 

“I’d be ashamed to take on so, about a fine dress,” 
cried the girl, who had spoiled it; “it’s right down wicked, 
I declare it is.” 

“ You did wrong to barn it,” says I, looking her right 
in the eye, all the time — “ you know you did — you never 
tried the iron on a piece of cloth first, to see if it was hot 


76 


THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 


You wouldn^t have served your own dress so, you know 
you wouldn’t.” 

She got mad at that, and went out slamming the door 
after her. Then Patience and I were alone, and though 
I thought she was wrong, I tried to comfort her ! 

“ Oh 1 Patty,” said she, “ I’ll tell you — I couldn’t tell 
any body else in the whole world. If it was mine, I 
wouldn’t mind it so — but it is Mrs. Shaler’s. I took it 
out of her bureau drawer, thinking it would do no harm, 
and that she never would know any thing about it. I 
meant to put it back, and all the other things too — oh, 
dear I What shall I do ? What will become of me ?” 

“Tell the truth. Patience,” says I, feeling wonderful 
bold to speak, for I knew I had right on my side. “ She 
won’t be half as angry, as she will to find it out in any 
other way, for find it out, she must. Besides, it is your 
duty, and as you’ve done the sin, you ought to bear the 
shame.” 

“I can’t,” she cried. “ I havn’t got courage enough ; 
you might do it, but I can’t. If we cut a piece off the 
breadth, perhaps she never would know it. Please help 
me, Patty, and see if it would do.” 

I shook my head and told her I wouldn’t have any 
thing to do with it, if she went on deceiving, but if she 
was willing to tell the righteous truth, I would go to Mrs. 
Shaler’s the next day, and stand by her while she did it. 

Patience never went back into the dancing room that 
night, but when the quilting broke up, she peeped out of 
the window and saw the young Frenchman, that was so 
taken with her, waiting on a girl with a calico frock on, 
one whom she despised too. The way she cried then, I 
couldn’t begin to tell, for he had asked if he might wait 
on her, most as soon as she came into the room. I don’t 
believe she slept one wink that night, for when the con- 
science is unquiet the eye-lids won’t stay down. 

“ How can you tell. Aunt Patty,” asked Estelle, look- 
ing up fondly to that good, but homely face, “ when you 
never did any thing wrong, in your life ?” 

“ That wont do to say,” replied Aunt Patty, meekly, 
laying her hand gently on Estelle’s ringleted head, while 
a warm and genial ray of satisfaction penetrated her 
heart, at this expression of perfect c onfidence in her excel 


THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA 


77 


lence — *' I'm nothing but a poor, erring creature at the 
best, but I do try to walk in the right way. — Thank the 
Lord 1 the lame can find room in the straight and narrow 
path, as well as the whole and strong. If it were not for 
this crutch, I might be further from the kingdom of Hea- 
ven than I now am.” 

“ Did you really go to Mrs. Slaler’s, Aunt Patty V' 
asked Estelle, after a pause, in which Aunt Patty seemed 
lost in devout meditation. 

“Yes, child, I did go; and I wouldn’t have missed it 
for all the pea-green taffetas this room could hold.” 

“Please tell her,” said Patience, “I can’t do it. I 
should die before I got through.” 

I never pitied any body worse in my life, than I did 
Patience. Her eyes were all swelled up, and there was a 
red rim round them, and her cheeks were all of a bluish 
white. I walked softly into the room, making as little 
noise as I could with my crutch, on the fine, soft carpet. 
I had never seen Mrs. Shaler since she was sick, and I 
hardly knew her, her face looked so thin and white, and 
then she looked so sad and wistful out of her eyes, a kind 
of farewell look, as if she felt she was going to die. She 
held out her hand, and I was most afraid to touch it, so 
little and weak it appeared, at the side of mine. 

“ Mrs. Shaler,” says I, “ I don’t want to worry you, 
and I hope you won’t be angry — but Patience” — here 
Patience burst out a sobbing, and I choked so, I couldn’t 
speak one word. But presently I got my courage up, 
and told her the whole story, from beginning to end, 
without any palavering, and begged her to pardon Pa- 
tience, as she expected the Lord Almighty would pardon 
her at the judgment day. I never shall forget her look, 
never, when I had finished. Do you think she was 
angry ?” 

“Oh, no I” answered Estelle, “but sorry, very sorry 
Was she not ?” 

“ Yes ! her beautiful sad-looking eyes filled with tears, 
as they fixed themselves on Patience, who stood by the 
side of the bed, with her apron all over her face. Clasp- 
ing her thin white hands together and lifting them up- 
ward. 

“ Oh 1” she cried, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, 


78 


THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 


“of how little value is a silk dress to me, lying as I am, 
on a dying bed. A white muslin shroud for my body and 
a wedding garment for my soul, is all I now ask of man 
or God.” 

It was the solemnest scene I ever beheld. It seemed as 
if an angel was speaking. She didn’t look as if she 
belonged to this world ; and I hardly felt that I was in it 
myself. There was something, I can’t tell what, that made 
Patience take the apron from her face and look right at 
her. 

“ Yes, look at me,” said the sick lady, in such a gentle, 
mournful tone, the tears streamed from my eyes to hear 
her — “ look at me, poor, deluded girl. What are beauty, 
dress, or admiration to me ? Shadows, shadows, all van- 
ished away I There is but one reality, and that is eternity. 
Remember this when I am gone — and set not your heart 
on the passing vanities of earth.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Shaler” — interrupted Patience, in a burst of 
penitence and grief, “ if you’ll only forgive me this time, 
I’ll never do so no more. ” 

“ I forgive you freely,” said the sick lady — “ and may 
God open your eyes, to see the power of truth and the 
beauty of holiness.” 

“Estelle, I never forgot that morning — I never shall; 
Did as I am now, and though that frail, beautiful form is 
all dust and ashes, mingling with common dust — it comes 
back to me all alive as it were, as if but a day had passed 
since then. As I was leaving the room, she called me 
back to the bedside and said — 

“You are a good girl, Patty — I’ve heard Parson 
Broomfield speak of you, Patty ; I’m going to the land 
«rhere the lame shall need no crutch, for the Lord God 
^hall be their strength and their kay.” 

Aunt Patty paused, and taking her handkerchief from 
her pocket held it to her eyes. The memories of her youth 
rushed in such a full stream through the channel of age, 
that the waters overflowed. Estell3, over whose sweet, 
young face, a soft, solemn shadow had been gradually 
stealing, laid her head on Aunt Patty’s lap and wept from 
sympathy. 

“ Did she die, Aunt Patty ?” 

“Yes, not many weeks after, she was laid in her grave, 


THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 79 

but I believe if ever a soul went to glory, hers did. It 
was the longest funeral I ever saw. Every body followed 
her ; the poor as well as the rich, and I don’t believe there 
was a dry eye, when Parson Broomfield preached hei 
funeral sermon. Oh I he was a glorious man, Parson 
Proomfield was. I’ve heard good preaching since, but 
never any body that preached like him. It seemed, when 
you were listening to him, as if somebody was pouring oil 
ail over the soul — and he too, is singing the song of 
Moses and the Lamb !” 

Again the waters of memory overflowed, for the valves 
that close over the sensibilities of age are easily opened. 
That beloved and venerated name always touched a master 
chord and produced a long vibration. 

“ What became of Patience ?” said Estelle. “Did she 
never get married ?” 

“ I never saw any thing like children,” said Aunt Patty, 
taking a large pinch of snuff, from the gold box Mr 
Selwyn presented her on his wedding eve. “They always 
ask such silly questions, as if all a woman was born and 
bred for was to get mamed. Why, some of the best 
women that ever lived are old maids, I just as lief speak it 
as not, and walk alone through the world scattering bless- 
ings every step they take. I do think they are the most 
unselfish beings in the world, if they aint selfish. St. Paul 
says it is better not to marry, but to live to glorify the 
Lord, and every body knows he was inspired and spoke 
with a cloven tongue of fire.” 

“ I don’t mean to marry,” said Estelle, emphatically. 
“I think you are right. Aunt Patty, it is better to be 
single. Frank asked me to wait for him, but I wouldn’t 
leave you and mother for any body, though I liked them 
ever so well. But you did not tell me about Patience.” 

“ Patience,” said her historian, “was an altered girl, from 
the morning I told Mrs. Shaler about the taffeta. She 
gave up all her airs and finery, and though tne girls 
in the village taunted her and called her by the nick 
name of “Pea-Green Taffeta,” she never talked back to 
them, but looked meek and sorry, remembering what Mrs 
Shaler had said to her. You can’t think how much pret- 
tier she grew, for the spirit that is in one makes a wonder- 
ful difference in the looks. She di^ % care about going 


80 


THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 


to any more dances, but the young men waited on her to 
the singing school as if nothing had happened. She used 
'to meet the young Frenchman there, for he staid about the 
village, and after awhile she walked home with nobody 
^Ise but him. The people began to talk and whisper, and 
said he was making a fool of her, but one Sunday morning 
they were published, and in a month more they were mar- 
ried, and I was at the wedding. Patience hadn’t on one 
bit of finery, not even so much as a real flower, nothing 
but a plain, white dress, not so much as a lace tucker on 
it. Folks said she’d repent of her bargain, for he couldn’t 
be much, to marry a poor girl like her. But he was a 
nice young man and made her a good husband, as far as I 
know ; he set up a sort of fancy shop and every one liked 
to buy of him, he bowed so much and had such a pleasant 
way of smiling and showing his white teeth.” 

“ Patty,” she used to say sometimes — “ if it had not 
been for you — oh 1 Patty, you’ve been a good friend to 
me.” 

“ I left the place when your mother married, and have 
never seen her since.” 

“ How did you get this scrap of silk. Aunt Patty ?” 

“ I just cut a little piece from the top of the skirt, where 
it was turned under, that time I mended it for Patience — 
I didn’t call that any robbery.” 

“ Oh no !” cried the child ; “ but here is a pretty piece 
of purple satin. Whose was that ?” 

“ Never mind now ; it is gettii,g sleepy time — one of 
these days, perhaps, I will tell you ill about it.” 


THE POKPLE SATIN DRESS 


“ Now, tell me, Aunt Patty, about the piece of purple 
satin,” said Estelle, while she plied^ her busy needle, in 
manufacturing a cap for her aged relative. “ You prom- 
ised me, you know, when you related the history of the pea- 
green silk taffeta. It seems to me there must be some- 
thing very interesting connected with this It has such 
a rich, beautiful color, and is so thick and glossy.” 

“ Let me look at it, child,” said Aunt Patty, putting on 
her spectacles and stretching out her hand, in which Estelle 
laid the shining morceau. “ I can always remember any 
thing better, when I look at it. Yes, this is fine, and it 
belonged to a fine lady — and she lived in a grand house, 
the grandest in the whole town. When I was a young 
girl, I used to stay week after week, in that house ; and the 
merry times they had there, I could not begin to tell.” 

“ You, Aunt Patty I How came you to be in such a 
grand house, and with such fine folks ?” 

Why, you know we always kept the best of company, 
and though we had no pomp or finery ourselves, we had 
more chances than one to see it in others. Mrs. Delville 
used to come to our house and take a great deal of notice 
of me, and call me her poor lame Patty, so kindly, it warmed 
my heart to hear her. I never 'expected any one to take 
notice of me, and when they did, I felt as you do, when 
the sun shines out on a cloudy day. Once Mrs. Delville 
sent for me, to make her a long visit, because, she said, she 
was lonely and wanted some pleasant company, as if I 
could entertain such a fine lady as she was. 

Well, I hadn’t been with her more than a day or two, 
when there came three young ladies from the city to see 
her, and three prettier creatures I never set eyes on. Their 
name was Morrison. The oldest wa5 Cornelin, but every 

( 81 ) 


82 


THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS 


body called her Neely — and the second was Margaret, and? 
the third Grace. One looked hardly older than the other, 
and it was hard to tell whicii was the handsomest. They 
all looked like so many pictures, and I, who always loved 
to iook on beautiful things, never was tired with gazing at 
them. I really believe, I’ve sat for hours together, look- 
ing first at one and then at the other, watching their eyes 
iparkle, and thinking of the stars twinkling way up in the 
sky. Grace had a kind of innocent, childish turn, that the- 
others hadn’t, and she seemed to take to me more than the 
rest. Mrs. Delville invited all the young company in the 
neighborhood to meet them, but I always staid by myself, 
in spite of all they could say and do. 1 never complained 
that the Lord didn’t make me as pretty as most people 
and when at home and among friends, I never thought of 
my looks. Provided they treated me kindly, I was satis- 
fied and happy. But I never could bear to go among 
strangers, and have them stare at me, and ask who that 
homely, lame young person was — and then to set myself 
by the side of those beautiful creatures, all dressed in mus- 
lin and laces, I never could do it. 

“You always tell me, Aunt Patty,” said Estelle, raising 
her deep blue eyes suddenly to Aunt Patty’s face, while a 
smile played upon her lips — “ that it is no matter how we 
look, if we are only good and amiable — ‘ handsome is, 
that handsome does,’ you say. According to that, you 
must be beautiful, Aunt Patty.” 

“ That’s true, my darling, but young men always will be 
looking after pretty faces, though they are often sorry 
enough for it in the end.” There was one young man who 
used to come every evening to Mrs. Delville’s, and the 
oftener he came, the gladder they always were to see him. 
lie was an officer in the Army, and his name was Captaiu' 
Lynmore. I never went into the parlor at night, but I 
could see the company walking about the garden 
of a moonlight evening, all in pairs, and the w'hite 
dresses of the ladies fluttered about among the green trees 
and flowers, looking like so many fairies. Captain Lyn- 
more was a tall, stately looking man ; tall enough to make- 
my neck ache to reach up to him, so as to see his face. 
The ladies praised him to the skies, and Me^med to think 
there was nobody in the world like hi'' Mrs. Delville 


THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 


83 


said shs would like of all things, to know which was his 
favorite, but for her life she couldn’t tell. She believed 
for her part, that he was in love with them all. I noticed 
that though Grace praised him least of all, she always 
blushed when they talked about him, and pretended not to 
listen. Sometimes she made believe to find fault with him, 
and said she didn’t see any thing in him to take on about, 
but one could see that this was all put on. 

They were always getting up some kind of frolic or 
other, for Mrs. Delville was a merry lady and never was so 
happy as when she saw smiling faces around her. She had 
passed several years in Europe and had brought home the 
greatest quantity of finery you ever saw. She was pre- 
sented at Court, while she was there, and there were four 
or five dresses hanging in her wardrobe, that she wore, 
when she went to the palace of the king. There was a 
crimson silk velvet, all trimmed with gold frogs and golden 
fringe; and a green silk velvet with silver frogs and silver 
fringe; and a beautiful juirple satin, trimmed all round with 
ermine as white as the drifted snow. 

Ah ! I’m so glad you’ve come to the purple satin. 
Please don’t loose sight of it again.” 

One night, continued Aunt Patty, smoothing the scrap 
on her right knee, Mrs. Delville took her fine court 
dresses out of the wardrobe and spreading them out on the 
bed, told the girls she was going to get up a kind of little 
masquerade, and they must put on her Royal robes for the 
occasion. Mr. Delville had a court dress of black silk 
velvet trimmed with gold lace, that Captain Lynmore was 
to wear, and would you believe it, Mrs. Delville tried to 
make me dress up and pretend to be somebody. But I 
told her, they ought to have somebody to look on, and I 
promised to slide into a corner of the parlor where, 
in the shade of the dark-green curtains, I could peep at 
what was going on. I wish I could describe to you the 
magnificent figures the three girls made in their glittering 
dresses, with the long trains sweeping behind them. Grace 
wore the purple satin with the ermine border, and it fitted 
her like a glove. Mrs. Delville made her put on some 
pearl ornaments of hers too, but the prettiest ornament of 
the whole was a white rose bud, she had twisted carelessly 
in her shining dark hair. This was all done for a frolic, 


p,4 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 

you know, for there was nobody invited but what wa» 
fitaying in the house already. As I sat in my corner I 
could see every thing that was going on, and I thought I 
knew more than some in the midst of the game. 

Captain Lynmore looked like a prince; and ^hoiigh 
there were other gentlemen in the room, the young gir!? 
had eyes for none but him, he made the rest seem sc insig- 
nificant. You know some people have naturally a royal 
way with them, and he was just such a one. !Nelly, the 
eldest sister, who wore the crimson velvet robe, with some- 
thing grand and shining on her head in the shape of a 
half moon, walked as if she was a king’s wife and he not 
good enough for her. She kept Captain Lynmore close 
to her the greatest part of the evening, though I could not 
help thinking that he would have liked to talk to some- 
body else. But she had a way of fastening people to her, 
whether they wanted to or not, so that it was very hard to 
get away from her. Margaret did not seem to care about 
any one in particular, but laughed and talked with all, 
looking in her beautiful green velvet, like a pink bursting 
into bloom, Grace did not look gay or lively like the rest j 
she was pale, and sometimes a sadness would steal over 
her that she tried to shake off and could not. Once in a 
while, her eyes, (and they were the softest, brightest eyes 
that ever shone in a mortal head,) would follow Captain 
Lynmore and her sister, as they swept up and down the 
room, playing state, with such a grace, and then she would 
turn away with a sigh. I heard somebody say to her 
** What a handsome couple your sister and Captain Lyn- 
more would make ! I don’t wonder they are in love with 
each other.” Grace drew a quick short breath and came 
and sat down by me. 

“ Patty,” says she, “ I envy you, from the bottom of my 
heart, you dear, good creature.” 

“ What in the world can you envy me for ?” says I, 
thinking, maybe, that she was making fun of me. 

“ Oh !” says she, laughing and blushing together, “ I 
don’t believe you were ever in love, were you ?” 

“ No, indeed,” says I, quite scandalized, “ I think it a 
disgrace for. a girl to fall in love, without being asked. I 
would as soon cut off my right hand.” 

I wish you could have seen her, Estelle ; when I said 


THE PURPLE BATIN DRESS. 36 

that, her cheeks turned the color of scarlet and her eyes 
flashed up, like a fire light on the wintry hearth. 

Says she, “ Patty, I hope you do not mean any reflection 
on me, by that remark.” 

“I don^t mean nothing wrong,” said I, “and I never 
thought you would take it to yourself, I am sure. I am 
sorry if I hurt your feelings.” 

She looked at me right hard as I spoke and her eyes 
softened till they looked like velvet. Laying her beautiful 
white hand on my arm, she said : 

“ I don’t believe you would intentionally wound the 
feelings of any one. I did not mean to speak so quickly. 
Come in Mrs. Delville’s room with me, will you ? I see 
they are preparing for a dance, and I do not wish to joiu 
in it.” 

With that she put her arm round me and sort of drew 
me coaxingly out of the room. “ There, Patty,” says she, 
“sit down in that rocking-chair, and tell me what you 
think of me.” 

I looked up in astonishment at those words, but when 
I saw her right opposite in her splendid dress, with her 
vail of white gossamer lace thrown back from her face, 
looking so fair and beautiful, I could not help saying ; 

“ I think you are the prettiest creature I ever saw in my 
life, but you have no right to be proud of it ; for you and 
I both are as the Lord made us.” 

“ Oh I Patty, you don’t say I’m pretty,” says she, catch- 
ing me round the neck and kissing me, with her own sweet 
lips; “if it were not for one person, I would not care 
how I looked.” Then changing her voice she added ; 

“ Do you think Captain Lynmore love^ sister Neely ? 
Do you really think so ?” 

“ I don’t know enough about love,” says I, feeling 
ashamed, though I don’t know why I did, “ to know what 
its signs are ; you know better than I. ” 

“ Oh 1” says she, clasping her hands tight together and 
lifting them up a little, “ if I thought it were re'ally so, I 
should be wicked enough to wish to die. Patty, pity me ; I 
am the most foolish, the most inconsistent being in the world, 
and the most unhappy. Don’t think strange of me, but it is 
such a comfort to have some one, to whom I can open my 
heart, and you look so good,” 

6 


86 


THE PURPLE SATIN DREiS. 


Jnst at this moment, Mrs. Delville burst into the room 
calling on Grace to come immediately and make up the 
dance, that they could not do without her. 

“Is sister Neely going to dance ?” asked she quickly. 

“Yes, she is standing up with Captain Lynmore of 
•ourse,” says Mrs. Delville, significantly. 

“ Yes, yes, let us haste to the dance,” says Grace gayly, 
lolding up her train and showing her white satin skirt 
tinderneatL I didn’t know what to make of her, she 
ieemed so sad before, and then brightened up so suddenly, 
but I followed her in, and slid down into my little shaded 
corner. 

“I can’t tell you,” continued Aunt Patty, “how bewil- 
dered I felt, looking at that company, dressed up so fine 
and gay, knowing too, all the while, that she, who seemed 
the gayest and was the fairest, was sad at heart for all her 
smiles. I was then young, darling, and had foolish 
thoughts' like other girls, though I tried to shut them out. 
I sometimes thought it must be mighty pleasant to be at- 
tended 10 by the young men, and that young girls, who 
Were praiued and flattered for their beauty, must be hap- 
pier than such poor, crippled, misshapen beings as myself. 
But this night I found out that one might be pretty, 
prized and sought after, and yet if the right one did not 
come to praise and seek after, one might be perfectly mis- 
erable, as it were. And I prayed the Lord, in the silence 
of my little corner, that my thoughts might not be per- 
mitted to wander into forbidden regions ; and I blessed 
him, for making me, even as I was, secure from the temp- 
tations of vanity and pride.” 

The partner of Grace, was a fine young man, just as 
handsome as Captain Lynmore, but I could see plain 
enough, that though she laughed and talked with him, she 
was. not thinking of him, but of the one that was dancing 
with her sister Neely, and yet for all that, she made 
believe that she did not care one cent for him, and when 
it was her time to turn him in the dance, she hardly 
touched his hand, and looked right another way. When 
Grace stood at the head of the dance, it was a kind of 
fancy dance, that I never sav before, (for at the quiltings, 
that I told you about, they danced nothing but reels.) 


THE PURPLE SATIN URESS. 


87 


Mrs. Delville, thinking maybe, I looked lonely, tame and 
took a seat by me. 

“ Patty,” says she, “I am afraid that you will be tired 
sitting here by yourself. You and I are lookers on in 
Venice.” 

I didn’t know what she meant by that, but I knew it must 
be something pleasant, and I smiled and said, I was glad 
that I took pleasure in looking at beautiful objects, and 
that a prettier sight I never had had a chance of seeing. 

" Mrs. Delville,” says I, clearing my throat that felt 
wondrous husky, “ do you think Captain Lynrnore and 
Miss Neely are going to get married ?” 

“I don’t know,” says she, they would make a splendid 
looking couple. Grace is my favorite, but I don’t think 
she cares for him.” 

Just at this moment, as I was looking at Grace, wh'^ 
stood under the blaze of the chandelier, with her ba^x to 
a lamp, burning on the mantel-piece, it seemed that she 
was wrapped in living flame. Her vail, which fluttered 
from her head, was blown by the wind into the blaze of 
the lamp, and she never knew it. Before I could find 
breath to scream. Captain Lynmore darted forward from 
the foot of the dance, and throwing his arms right round 
her, tore off the burning vail, and crushed the flames of 
her dress, with his hands. I never heard such shrieks as 
filled the room, and her sisters ran to and fro, wringing 
their hands, too much frightened to do any thing. Grace 
looked up in the Captain’s face, and such a smile I never 
saw before. You remember, Estelle, how you made me 
look out of the window the other night, to see how the 
moon looked, shining on the water. Just so sweet was the 
smile of that pale, beautiful face. “ Why, what is the mat- 
ter, child ? What makes you cry ?” 

“ I don’t know. Aunt Patty, I am so interested ; was 
she burned ? was she scarred ? I am so glad Captain Lyn- 
mpre put out the flames.” 

“ So was I,” cried Aunt Patty, “ I really couldn’t be 
sorry for the accident, that made her smile so sweetly, but 
the next moment, her eyes closed, her face turned as white 
as a corpse, and she fell like a dead person against his 
breast. He looked about him, like a distracted person^ 
and taking her up, as if she werf ‘^li, hurried off into 


88 


THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 


the next room and laid her on a sofa. Then he dropped 
down on his knees before her, and talked as if he was 
beside himself. Mrs. Delville could scarcely get him out 
of the room, so as to unloosen Grace’s dress, for she knew 
she had only fainted. 

“ No, no, no,” says she, pushing him away by the shoul 
der, she is not dead ; let me get to her. But good 
heavens. Captain Lynmore, look at your hands, they are 
bleeding and raw ; oh dear, what shall I do ? Who will 
attend to Captain Lynmore’s hands 

Now, I had seen my mother put cotton on burns, 
because she said it kept the air out, and I thought if I 
wrapped up Captain Lynmore’s hands in it, the best way 
I could, it would be better than letting them bleed and 
suffer, as I knew they did. So while Mrs. Delville was 
busy with Grace, I followed the Captain, and made bold 
to offer my services. He seemed as grateful as could be, 
and as gentle as a lamb, for all he must have been in a 
world of pain. 

“ Patty,” says he, (it is strange how every body called 
me Patty,) “ you are very kind, but oh I be kinder still, 
and inquire how she is now. Tell me if she has recovered ; 
tell me if she lives ; I cannot bear this suspense.” 

I went and opened the door where she was, and the first 
thing I saw was her beautiful eyes, looking right at me, as 
she lay on the sofa, with her sister and Mrs. Delville close 
by her. The purple satin dress lay all scorched and 
tattered on the floor, with its white ermine trimming 
soiled and blackened. What a pity I spoiled just for a 
frolic. 

Grace held out her hand, and I went up to her and 
asked her how' she felt, and that Captain Lynmore couldn’t 
be easy till he knew. She blushed up like a summer rose, 
and said she was better, much better. 

“ Please tell him so, Patty,” said she, giving my hand a 
soft, loving pressure, “ and tell him too, I have no words 
to thank him, but oh ! I feel so grateful,” here she let go 
my hand and laid her own on her heart, which seemed to 
flutter like a bird. 

Neely was standing close by the sofa, and I happened 
to be looking at her, and I never saw any body’s counte- 
nance chasuiie so. It turned so dark and all the color 


THE PURPLE SATIX DRESS. 


80 


faded away on her lips and cheeks. All her befintj 
appeared to vanish, and as she fi.x;ed her eyes steadfastly 
on Grace, there was somethin" in them, that I do say, 
made me tremble all over. All at once, she said out. 

“ Sister, did you know that your hair was all burnt off 
behind 

Grace raised her hand to her head, where, sure enough, 
her beautiful dark hair was all scorched and frizzled. 

“ It is indeed so, but,” she added, sitting up and leaning 
anxiously forward ; “ surely Captain Lynmore must be 
suffering for all this. How selfish I am not to think of it 
sooner. Mrs. Delville, tell me if it is not so.” 

His hands are badly burned,” replied Mrs. Delville, 
“ bat Patty has bandaged them nicely with cotton, and I 
trust they will soon be healed. I have sent for a physi- 
cian, however, fearing that you, too, might be seriously 
injured.” 

“ I am not burned,” said she, the tears gushing from 
her eyes ; “ but it is so sad to think I have made others 
suffer. Your costly dress, too, is all ruined. How sorry 
I am.” 

'‘Never mind the dress,” says Mrs. Delville kindly, “I 
do not consider it of any consequence. It performed its 
mission long ago.” 

She lifted it up as she spoke, and a piece of it fell off 
just at my feet. It looked like a shining purple feather 
flattering down. I picked it up and put it in my pocket, 
and this is the very scrap. I cut off the burnt edges and 
it don’t look as if fire had ever been near it. I do wonder 
what she did with the rest of it. 

"I wonder what became of Captain Lynmore and 
Grace, Aunt Patty. I am afraid of Neely’s dark looks; 
I don’t think I like Captain Lynmore. Why didn’t he 
dance with Grace, when he liked her so much, and it would 
have made her so happy ? ” 

“ I don’t know, child. He thought she didn’t care 
about him, and Neely flattered him and hung upon his 
words, as if she was feeding on manna. I found out too, 
that she made him think Grace was engaged to be married, 
which was a sin and a shame, considering there wasn’t a 
word of truth in it. Now, I don’t conceive how a per 
son 


90 


THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 


Here Estelle nuide an impatient gesture, fearing Aunt 
Patty was about to indulge in a train of moral reflections, 
which she was in the habit of doing more and more. 

“Well, Aunt Patty,” says she, laying her hands across 
her lap and looking earnestly in her face. 

“ I see how it is,” cried Aunt Patty, patting her favorite’s 
golden head. “ I will try not to be tedious — but you must 
remember that I am old, and the thoughts of the old must 
follow a beaten track. There is no use in telling you that 
Captain Lynmore and Grace loved each other — for you 
know that already, and perhaps you know by this time, 
that Neely was envious of her, and wanted to marry him 
herself. She stood in the way of their happiness, as if 
by keeping them apart, she could bring him nearer to her- 
self.” 

“One evening, just as the sun went down, Grace drew 
me with her down to the bottom of the garden, where 
there was a nice seat under a chestnut tree, and there wo 
sat down together. I saw she looked troubled and pale. 
You can’t think how pretty she looked with her short hair, 
kinking up at the ends.” 

“Patty,” says she, twisting the chestnut leaves into 
little queer shapes — “ I never shall be happy though he 
loves me better than life. Neely will not let me be happy. 
If I marry him, she will be miserable. No, I must give 
him up : I should die under such withering looks as she 
casts upon me.” 

“ Now, I don’t know how the idea came into my head, 
but it seemed to me, that I was moved to say something 
for her good, that I had never thought of before. I 
couldn’t bear to see such a sweet, pretty young creature 
sacrificing herself so.” 

“You have a right to do as you please with yourself,” 
says I, “ but I don’t think you ought to sacrifice him. He 
saved your life, and sets all the world by you. He don’t 
"ove your sister, and you can’t make him love her. So if 
you give him up, you will make three miserable people, 
instead of one. I don’t think the Lord will be pleased 
with such doings.” 

“ Oh Patty, I did not look upon it in this light before. 
Xt would indeed be an ungrateful return for all he has done 


THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. Ql 

for me. Surely, surely I have no right, as you say^ to make 
him wretched.’ ' 

She had hardly done speaking when Captain Lynmore 
himself came walking up, with his left hand in a sling, 
which only made him look more interesting. He sat down 
close to Grace, and began to play with the leaves she held 
in her hand. I thought I was not wanted, and stole away 
BO softly, they never knew it. They never came in till the 
moon rose, and turned every thing into silver all round 
them. I knew by their looks that all was settled between 
them, and after a while, he came up to me, and told me in 
a low voice, that he was tlie happiest man in the world, 
and that he owed it all to me. I saw Neely leave the 
room, a few minutes after, with that same dark, strange 
countenance. Well, they married before the end of the 
summer, and traveled way olf into a foreign land. They 
sent me the beautifullest silk dress you ever did see, and a 
gold ring besides. I have never seen them since, but I 
heard Neely was an old maid, with all her beauty. Oh I 
how time flies. Mrs. Delville is dead, strangers live there 
now. The old chestnut tree is fallen to the ground, and 
the garden walks, 1 suppose, all overgrown with grass. 
Sure enough, darling, we have ud continuing city here. 
But, praise the Lord, we have a house not made with 
hands, eternal in the heavens. 


THE RED VELVET BODICE 


“What is that, Aunt Patty 

*• A little scrap of red silk velvet, child. I can hardly 
tell you what tender feelings come over me as I look upon 
it. It brings up before me a little fairy-like looking 
figure, not much larger than you are now, only a speck or 
so taller. How well I remember the time when I first 
seen her, dressed out in this velvet bodice, with a white 
muslin skirt flowing below it, so easy. ” 

“Tell me all about it. Aunt Patty,” said Estelle, with 
her eager, earnest look of curiosity, which ever proved 
irresistible. “ I never saw any one that had such a store- 
house of pleasant memories as you have. It seems to me 
that you know the history of everybody that you ever met 
with — the heart history, and that is so much better than 
the mere outside story, you know. What made every 
body tell you every thing that they thought and felt, 
Aunt Patty ? Were they not afraid you might tell it 
again ? Oh I I know the reason. You are so good and 
unselfish, so different from other people, it is a comfort to 
talk to you, just as I do myselfi There are a thousand 
little things that I don’t like to speak about, even to my 
own mother, that I am not afraid to tell you. You look 
as if it was a favor to yourself to be allowed to listen to 
us.” 

“ And so it is, darling. Just imagine what I would be, 
if I interested myself only in my own concerns, a poor, 
lone, childless creature, like me. Now, by going out of 
myself, as it were, and entering into other people’s hearts, 
I can appropriate to myself their beauty, and worth, and 
property, and be as happy for the time as they are them* 
selves.” 

“Tell me how you do it, Aunt Patty ” 

( 92 ) 


THE RED VELVET BODICE. Q3 

“ I don’t do any thing, child. I only feel ; blessed be 
Ood, for the gift of a feeling heart. A great mind is a 
glorious gift, too. At least I think it must be, but if 1 
can’t have but one, I would rather possess the first a great 
deal, for we don’t love people so much for their minds as 
their hearts. We admire them, to be sure, and look up, 
and wonder, but my poor neck can’t stretch its chords 
much by upward looking, and I suppose that is the reason 
I like the easiest feeling best.” 

“ But I would like to have both. Aunt Patty. I would 
like to have a great and noble mind, so great and noble 
that the whole world should hear of it, and almost feel 
afraid of my name, it would be so very famous ; and then, 
I would like to have so kind and tender a heart, that 
every body would love me too much to fear me, and for- 
get! was great, because I was so good.” 

Estelle spoke with energy, and mind and heart seemed 
indeed struggling for mastery in her childish, but intelli- 
gent face. 

“And what else, my darling, would you like ? Would 
you stop short there ? Isn’t there something wanting to 
put a kind of crown on all this ?” 

“ Oh ! yes. Aunt Patty. I would like to have a spirit 
pure and holy, filled to running over with the love of God, 
caring for nothing so much as to please Him, and oblige 
Him. And then, you know, I could use my great mind 
to glorify Him, and my good heart to make my fellow- 
creatures happy. There is no harm in such kind of ambi- 
tion, is there. Aunt Patty 

Aunt Patty laid her palsied hand in silent blessing on 
the head of her blooming favorite. She tried very hard 
to swallow down her feelings, before she found voice to 
speak. 

“ When you was a little thing, Estelle, I feared you 
wouldn’t live to grow up, because you were smarter than 
otner children, and then I used to have strange dreams 
about you, that I thought were warnings. Now, I begin 
to think the Lord will spare you to be a burning and 
a shining light to other generations. But stop, little 
one. Don’t pull that scrap of velvet to pieces. There 
isn’t much of it, any way, but it. is big enough to remind 


94 


THE RED VELVET BODICE. 


me of tlie precious little soul whose body was e^Icased in 
the crimson bodice.^’ 

Estelle leaned on her right elbow, in her usual listen- 
ing attitude, and her eyes said as plainly as tongue could 
speak it, -'Well, I arn ready to hear it.” 

“ It isn’t much of a story, child. 1 am afraid you will 
not like what I have to say, half as well as the one about 
the purple satin, or the pea-green taffeta, but I love this 
little scrap the best of all, because I loved the wearer 
best.” You remember how your father went to the south, 
the spring before he died, and how your sister Etnnia 
went there for her health, for she was mighty poorly be- 
fore she married Mr. Selwyn. Well, you know your aunt 
Woodville married a rich southern gentleman, and lives 
on a great southern plantation, and has ever so many 
negroes. You have heard Emma talk about them a hun- 
dred times. Before you was old enough to remember, 
Mrs. Woodville came on to the North, to see your mother, 
my niece Emma that was — and brought with her a young 
lady by the name of Nora Shirland. When we heard 
that she was coming, we felt a little uneasy, fearing she 
would not enjoy herself, as they have so many to wait 
upon them at the South, and live so differently. We 
thought our simple ways wouldn’t suit her, and really 
wished your aunt was coming by herself. 

I never shall forget the first time I saw Nora. We 
were all watching for your aunt, for she had written to 
us the day she expected to arrive, and we kept looking 
and looking till the sun was nearly down At length a 
carriage stopped at the door, and your aunt Woodville, 
a fine, tall, handsome lady, got out first, and then came a 
little bit of a creature, with a drab-colored traveling 
dress, fitting her as nice as wax, and a neat straw bonnet, 
trimmed with blue lustring ribbon, and a sweet, ]deasant, 
smiling countenance, that seemed to ask every body to^ 
love her, and promised to love every body in return. She 
didn’t look one bit proud or grand, and she hadn’t been 
in the house five minutes before we all felt as if we had 
known her all our lives. It was in the beginning of sum- 
mer, and my niece Emma always did have the prettiest 
roses and pinks in her garden I ever did see anywhere, 
and Nora ran about among the flowers, with Edmund, 


THE RED VELVET BODICE. 95 

who was a little boy then, and Emma, v j though weak 
and sickly, was a pert and sprightly chila. She took to 
Norah mightily, and used to string pinks and wind them 
round a sprig of camomile, and make lUi^i^ays for her 
every day Norah always said they were beautiful, 
thW^ I knew the flowers she had at home were ten thou- 
sand times prettier ttan any of ours. She used to call 
me Aunt Patty, just as you do, and would spend hour 
after hour in looking over my scraps, and making me tell 
her about this one and that one, making believe as if she 
could never get tired, but I knew all the time she did it 
more to please me than herself. 

At first the ladies were shy of calling to see her, think- 
ing she might put on airs and think herself above them, 
but after a while, they couldn’t come often enough, or the 
gentlemen either. Without seeming to take a bit of 
pains, she could entertain just as many as there happened 
to be, and though she was mighty fond of talking herself, 
she always let every one else have a chance. You never 
saw any . one so well pleased with every thing as she 
seemed to be, and many’s the time I’ve heard her say, 
clapping her hands in a kind of earnest way she had, all 
her own : 

'‘Oh I r would so like to live at the North. Every 
thing is so nice and comfortable, here. The grass is so 
green, and the water’s so pure, and the air is so fresh, 
and makes one feel so lively.” 

“ Nothing would please us more than to have you com- 
pliment our young gentlemen so much as to let one of 
them induce you to remain,” said your mother, smiling on 
her. 

“ Oh !” says Mrs. Woodville, shaking her head. 
“ Nora is the hardest child to please you ever did 'see. 
There ain’t a young man at the South that can make 
her like his name better than her own, though many a 
one has tried it. I should be very glad if Mr. Elmwood 
could have better luck.” 

Now, Mr. Elmwood was a gentleman, who was might) 
intimate with your father, and alwavs visited at our house 
oftener than anywhere else. He was a lawyer, and 
knew all the sciences by heart ; and when he walked the 
ftreet, he seemed to be in a brown study. He wasn’t a 


96 


THE RED VELVET BODICE. 


young man, but somehow or other, no one thought of 
calling him an old bachelor. I suppose it was because 
he was so different from most all the other men, who 
wanted to pass themselves off for young beaux. I never 
saw him so pleased with any one as he was with Nora. 
You would have thought, to hear them talk, that she 
knew as much about the sciences and the arts as he did,, 
though she did not make any parade of her learning. 
Then, again, when she talked with the children, sho 
seemed as much a child as the simplest of them. 

“Nora, my dear,” says Mrs. Woodville, late one day, 
“ what do you think of Mr. Elmwood ? How does he 
compare with your Southern gentlemen 

“ Oh ! I like him exceedingly,” says she, her face smil- 
ing all over, it looked so bright, “and I don’t think he 
would suffer by comparison with anybody. He is so in- 
telligent, agreeable, and seems to have such a generous 
and noble heart.” 

“ Do you think you would be willing to marry him, 
Nora ?” says Mrs. Woodville, with a knowing look. 

“ I wish you would not want to turn every friend into- 
a lover,” says Nora, blushing. “ We are the best friends 
in the world, and mean to stay so, if you will only let us. 
I don’t believe he thinks of it any more than I do. I 
should be so sorry if he heard any such remark.” 

“Well,” says I, “Miss Nora, I never heard a young 
lady talk so sensible about gentlemen before. I don’t 
see why they can’t be friends as well as lovers, and stay 
so, too. If all the girls would set as much store by 
themselves, and not be in such a hurry to get married, 
the young men wouldn’t be half so vain and foolish. 
They think they have only to pick and choose, and you 
can’t make them believe anybody is an old maid from 
choice, to save their lives.” 

“I shall make them know so, one of these days,” says 
Nora, laughing, “for I never will marry unless I love 
with my whole heart, and soul, and mind and strength. 
And I fear the man lives not, wdio can draw forth my 
latent energies of passion. I am so happy as I ara,’^ 
continued she, all in a glow of earnestness, “so happy at 
home, my own dear home, I have not one wish to leave it> 


THE RED VELVET BODICE. 97 

till I am called to taat better home, where love eternal 
reigns.” 

She looked up as sie said this, and I saw a tear spark- 
ling in her clear blue eye. It made us all feel solemn, 
and nobody said any thing more to her about Mr. Elm- 
wood. He came as usual, at night, and she talked to him 
just as easy as ever. Now, some girls are so silly, if they 
have been teased about a gentleman, they can’t be in his 
company afterward without blushing and simpering, and 
acting awkward. But Nora had the best sense of any 
young lady I ever saw; and Mr. Elmwood thought so, 
too. He never seemed to care for ladies before, any more 
than if he was the man in the moon. Though as he was 
thought to have an independent property, and was sen- 
sible and not bad looking, he might have had a good 
chance to get married if he had wanted to. 

“ Now, darling, I see you are thinking about the red 
velvet bodice. Never mind ; I’m coming to it presently 
in my roundabout way.” 

Aunt Patty rapped the lid of her golden snuff-box, and 
called up a large pinch of snuff, which seemed to have a 
reviving influence on her faculties, for when Estella 
reminded her of Nora Shirland, and the Red Velvet Bo- 
dice, a more than usual gleam of animation kindled in her 
faded eyes. 

“ Ah I yes,” said she. Nora was a blessed little crea- 
ture, and I love to dwell upon the time when she was 
among us, lighting us all up, just like summer sunshine. 
She was so different from what we thought Southern girls 
were, she didn’t want any waiting on in the world ; and 
instead of lying in bed till noon, as I’ve heard say they 
do, she was up with the lark, and out among the dews of 
the morning. She was smarter and more industrious than 
half the Northern girls, though they think the ladies at the 
South do nothing but sit and be fanned with big bunches 
of peacock’s feathers the live long day. Mr. Elmwood 
got so, that it seemoi he couldn’t go nowhere else, but 
just where she was. He used to come most every night, 
as steady as the clock struck the hours, and no matter how 
folks were seated wheii he came, he was sure to get close 
to her, in a little time. 

One night, and I never did see him look so bright and 


TOE RED VELVET BODICE. 


98 

piVrt before, he waited upon her to a party that was giren 
to her by one of our near neighl)ors. After she waa 
dressed, and it never took her iong to fix herseif, though 
she always looked as nice as a new-bound Psalm book, 
she came into my room for me to see her. 

“ I couldn’t think of going, Aunt Patty,” says she, 
giving a little flourish of her hands, so natural to her, 
” without knowing if you approved my looks or not. How 
do you like my bodice ? Do you tliink it looks too 
flue ? If it does, I will take it oS*, a»id wear something 
more simple.” 

“Bless your heart,” says I, “ I wouldn’t have you take 
it oflf on no account, it looks so nice and pretty. It fits 
you olf like a London doll. I wonder what Mr. Elmwood 
will say to it.” 

“ Don’t, Aunt Patty,” says she, “ I want you all to un- 
derstand that we are friends, the very best friends in the 
world, nothing more.” 

“ I think Nora will like Mr. St. Leger,” says Mrs. 
Worth, ray niece Emma, who step})ed in a few moments 
before. They say he is just returned from Europe, and 
will be there to-night. He is the pride and boast of our 
town. I am very glad he is come back time enough for 
you to see him I” 

“Is he very tall ?” says Nora, laughing, “and has he 
fine black eyes, and very graceful manners ?” 

“Why you must have seen him,” says my niece Emma. 
“ He is all that and more.” 

“I have seen him often in my mind’s eye,” say Nora. 
She began with a smile, but a sort of a pensive shade 
settled on her face before she stO))ped. 

Aunt Patty stopped, for Mrs. Worth opened the door, 
and with her usual quiet, gentle tread, approached the 
table on which her venerable aunt leaned her palsied 
arm. 

“Emma,” said Aunt Patty, “I am glad you have 
come in, just at this moment. I’m telling Estelle about 
Nora Shirland. You recollect when she first met Mr. 
St. Leger, the night she wore her red silk velvet bodice, 
with a white muslin skirt, looking so sweet and modest. 
Here is a little scraj) of it that I keep as choice as gold 
dust. Now as I wasn’t at that party, I can’t say any thing 


THE RED VELVET BODICE. 


99 


about it. You take up the story now and finish it, 
Estelle wiil be glad enough to hear it from you, instead 
of poor, prosy Aunt Patty.” 

“ Oh ! no,” exclaimed Estelle, “ but it would be a 
rarity to hear mother tell a story. Nobody reads aloud 
as sweetly as she does.” 

'‘Estelle alway knew how to flatter a little,” said her 
mother, her soft gray eyes turning upon her with a look 
of the tenderest affection. 

“ Nora Shirland was indeed a lovely girl, and the sum- 
mer she passed with us was one of the most delightful 
seasons of my life. Yes, I remember that evening, Aunt 
Patty, well. I was anxious Norah should enjoy herself, 
and bear away with her a pleasing remembrance of our 
northern social gatherings. I wanted that she should see 
Mr. St. Leger, and that he should see our Southern fa- 
vorite. I had penetration enough to perceive that Mr. 
Elmwood would never be to her more than a devoted friend, 
and that if some one did not make a deeper impression, 
there was no prospect of our transplanting her to the 
bowers of the North. 

“ When Mr. St. Leger made his appearance, we were all 
grouped about the piazza, in the moonlight; for it was a 
clear, summer night, and the rooms were rather small. A& 
Mr. St. Leger walked up the gravel avenue that led to 
the door, his tall and finely-formed figure towered in the 
moonlight and made all those around appear very insig- 
nificant. There was something in his air and manner 
that commanded respect and admiration, and I think he 
had the handsomest face I ever saw. I looked at Nora, 
who was conversing with Mr. Elmwood, and I was sure 
I saw a sudden glow on her cheek, which reddened 
still more, when the lady of the house brought up Mr. 
St. Leger, and introduced him. He addressed her with 
grace and politeness ; but there was an air of reserve 
about him, which seemed to affect chillingly the warm- 
hearted Southern girl. She did not speak with her usual 
ease and animation ; and when they separated and min,- 
gled with the rest of the company, I have no doubt it 
was a feeling of mutual disappointment. I learned after- 
ward that every one had been praisitig Nora to him, and 
prophesying that she would captivate him, and with the 

L. of 0. 


100 


THE RED VELVET BODICE. 


natural pride of men, he resisted the coercion of the will 
of others. He had seen too much of the world, been too 
much flattered and admired, not to have a good deal of 
self-appreciation, and Nora had her share too. 

could not help being pleased when I saw him draw 
near the piano when Nora was singing, and stand with 
folded arms, in perfect silence, listening to her songs. 
She sang with great sweetness and taste, and the soul of 
music breathed from her voice. When she had finished, 
and rose from the piano, every one urged her for another 
song. Mr. St. Leger would sing with her — they said he 
was one of the most delightful singers in the world. She 
looked up to him involuntarily, with all the music of her 
soul beaming in her eye — and 1 firmly believe that one 
glance thawed the ice of reserve that had imparted such 
coldness to his first greeting. His fine dark eye responded : 
and, turning over the leaves of a music book, he waited her 
selection. He had one of the richest, most mellow, charm- 
ing voices I ever heard, and it harmonized delightfully 
with her own. Shfe looked excited and happy ; but she 
was too polite to monopolize the instrument, and soon 
gave place to others. After that, I saw her walking and 
talking with St. Leger, whose lofty figure was compelled 
to bend down, to find himself within reach of her gentle, 
though animated tones. I love to see such a contrast. 
The upward-looking, delicate woman ; the strong, protect- 
ing, sheltering arm.” 

“ I told you, darling, that I could not tell a story as 
your mother can,” said Aunt Patty, nodding approvingly. 
“ I talk in my old-fashioned way, and every thing sounds 
alike, but though she doesn’t say any thing very particu- 
lar or new, she makes a great deal more of it than I 
could do.” 

“ Aunt Patty knows she has got her name up,” said Mrs. 
Worth, smiling, “or she would not depreciate her own 
talents. She has long been considered the queen of story- 
tellers, and is too secure of her dominion to fear any 
usurpation on my part. I am now only recalling some of 
the pleasant memories of the heart.” 

“ Tell, Estelle, about the ruining of the velvet bodice, 
and how like a little angel Nora bore it,” said Aunt 
Fatty. 


THE RED VELVET BODICE. J[01 

Yes,” replied Mrs. Worth, “all young girls might 
•profit by the example of Nora’s gentleness and forbear- 
ance. In all country parties there are necessarily some 
invited for courtesy’s sake, who seem to have no legitimate 
claim of their own. There was a very clumsy, coarse, would- 
be fine girl there, about three times as large as Nora, who, 
taking a great fancy to her velvet bodice, sent the next 
day to borrow it for a pattern. Knowing her so well, I 
begged her not to lend it, certain she would try it on, and 
spoil it.” 

“ I would not appear disobliging or proud, for any con- 
sideration,” said Nora, with a sweet compliance. “ I pre- 
sume it will add to her happiness to have a bodice like 
mine, and I cannot refuse so small a favor.” 

The next day, toward sun-down, we were all sitting in 
the front room, and Mr. St. Leger and Mr. Elmwood 
were both there, and Nora found no more difficulty in en- 
tertaining one, than the other, though I could see that 
when Mr. St Leger addressed her, her countenance lighted 
up with an expression I had never seen in it before. It 
was such a kindling, glowing countenance, it would be 
difficult to describe. 

While we were all engaged in the most delightful con- 
versation, a little coarse, red-faced girl entered the parlor, 
without any announcement, and staring at every face, 
walked up to Nora, exclaiming, “I guess this is the one.” 
She had a bundle in her hand tied up in a soiled and rum- 
pled napkin, which she swung round her fingers with fierce 
velocity. 

“Here’s your jacket,” said she, sticking the bundle in 
Nora’s face, who, perfectly astonished, suffered it to drop 
in her lap. ” Sister says she’s sorry she burst it, but it 
is too little for her any how. She’s mended it the best 
she could, and says she’s much obliged to you.” 

The child made an awkward attempt at a courtesy, and 
marched out of the room, leaving me excessively morti 
fied that so uncommonly rude a specimen of country 
breeding should have exhibited itself to Nora at that mo- 
ment. The poorest children in our neighborhood were, 
with few exceptions, polite and well-bred. As the bundle 
fell in her lap, it loosened, and the bodice was exposed to 
view. Nora clasped her hands, looked surprised and 
7 


102 


THE RED VEIVET BODICE. 


serious one moment, then burst into a natural laugh of 
perfect good humor. 

“ Ichabod,^^ she cried, holding up the bodice, every 
seam of which was distinguished by a streak of the white 
lining, violently exposed. A dark stain also disfigured 
one of the most conspicuous parts — in short, it was com- 
pletely ruined. 1 saw that Mr. St. Leger watched her 
countenance with earnest curiosity. 

Mrs. Worth resumed her narrative. It would be diffi- 
cult to tell which was the most attentive auditor, Estelle 
or Aunt Patty. 

I do not believe that it is possible for a young lady to 
have a favorite article of dress, carelessly, irretrievably 
ruined, without feeling considerable regret; but it is cer- 
tain Nora manifested no anger or vexation. 

“This is one of the disadvantages of being small,” 
said she, folding up the unfortunate bodice, and laying 
it on one side ; “ if I was only of a reasonable size, this 
would not have happened.” 

“ Do you really forgive the author of this calamity ?” 
asked St. Leger. 

“ To be sure, I do,” answered Nora, smiling. 

“ From your heart and soul ?” 

“From my heart and soul.” 

“ I did not believe women capable of so much mag- 
nanimity.” 

“I am sorry you have so poor an opinion of our sex.” 

“ He has been traveling in Europe,” remarked Mr. 
Elmwood. “ That accounts for it ; besides, if he knew 
Miss Shirland as well as I do, he would be as much sur- 
prised at any want of magnanimity on her part, as he now 
is at its manifestation.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Elmwood,” said Nora, emphatically; 
“ I value your praises, because I do not deem them com- 
pliments.” 

“And you should value mine, because they ar'e com- 
pliments,” said St. Liger, smiling ; “a gentleman nevei 
takes the trouble to compliment a lady whom he does not 
wish to please.” 

“ As he believes that the only passport to her favor, it 
ii natural be should make use of it,” repeated Nora» 


THE RED TELVET BODICE. 103 

gravely, though there was a i expression in her eye that 
satirized the language of her lips. 

“ How can you remember all they said, mother ques- 
tioned Estelle. 

I suppose it made a deeper impresvsion on my mind, 
on account of my anxiety on the subject. I wanted Nora 
to marry a Northern gentleman and dwell among us. I 
was convinced that Mr. Elmwood was not a marrying 
man, and that he was satisfied with the warm, pure friend- 
ship that existed between them. I knew that St. Leger 
was fastidious and refined, and I feared that in my partial 
judgment, I exaggerated the winning qualities of Nora. 
I had penetration enough to perceive that the equanimity 
of temper she showed with regard to her ruined bodice 
filled him with admiration and respect. It was evident 
that his opinion of womankind was exalted. He was a 
keen observer, and those who shrunk from scrutiny, did 
well to avoid the glance of his dark and beaming eye. I 
thought as their acquaintance deepened into intimacy, that 
Nora avoided it, but not because she dreaded its spirit- 
reading power. Her heart was transparent, as its feelings 
were deep, like the waters of a still lake, on a clear, sum- 
mer day. 

Estelle smiled, and looked at Aunt Patty as much as 
to say, “ Mother relates a story charmingly — does she 
not?” and Aunt Patty’s nod responded, “You know I 
always was a prosy being, darling. My niece Emma 
used to scribble poetry, before she married Mr. Worth.” 

As the autumn drew near, continued Mrs. Worth, 
your Aunt Woodville commenced her preparations to 
return to the South. She shuddered at the idea of our 
cold Northern winters ; but Nora said she longed for a 
merry sleigh ride, when the ground was covered with snow, 
and the moon made it, if p«3ssible, whiter still. We all 
begged her to remain and the children gathered round her 
with tears, entreating her not to leave them. 

“ Perhaps I may return with the flowers of spring,” 
said she, caressing them, “ for dearly do I love this genial 
Northern home. I do not think, however, I could bear 
the rigors of your wintry season, with all my admiration 
of its snow, icicles and frost gems.” She turned toward the 
window, and looked earnestly at the trees, which were 


104 


THE RED VELVET BODICE. 


gilded here and there with a golden leaf, a id here and 
there touched with flame. I thought she looked very sad, 
and I wondered if St. Leger had been awakening too 
deep an interest in her heart, without giving her his own 
in return. They had been thrown so much together, in 
social communion, there seemed such harmony of thought 
and feeling, it appeared impossible, that if their aflfections 
were disengaged, they should not meet and mingle. 

Niece,” interrupted Aunt Fatty, poising her knitting- 
needle, with a deliberate air, “ are you not making it 
too much of a love story, for such a young thing as 
Estelle ?” , 

“ Oh ! no,” exclaimed Estelle, with blushing eagerness ; 
“ I like such stories better than any other. I understand 
them too.” 

I do not think there is any danger of the description 
of the attachment of two such beings as Nora and St. 
Leger, said Mrs. Worth, having any influence, but 
what is pure and good. Young as Estelle is, she is ca- 
pable of sympathizing in the love which excellence in- 
spires. That evening, when St. Leger came, the topic of 
conversation was the approaching departure of our friends. 
I watched his countenance, and was sure a change came 
over it, while Nora’s color rose. It was not long before 
we missed them both. There is a very pleasant walk in 
front of our house, you know, by that avenue of poplar 
trees, which stretches beyond the garden. I saw glimpses 
of two figures walking back and forth, and back again 
very slowly. It was easy to distinguish the lofty form of 
St. Leger in his dress of black ; and any body could tell 
who Nora was, so slight and airy she looked, in the clear 
starlight, in her white muslin robe and black scarf, making 
such a striking contrast. I think if I had counted the 
number of times they walked up and down that avenue, 
it could not have been less than a hundred. The children 
had long been in bed, Aunt Patty too, your Aunt Wood- 
ville retired to her chamber, and I remained alone in the 
parlor reading. Your father, — Mrs. Worth never could 
mention that name, without a glistening eye and a heav- 
ing bosom, — your father was absent from home, and 
though my eyes were on the book, my thoughts were wan- 
dering in pursuit of him At length Nora entered alone 


THE RED VELVET BODICE. 


105 


She looked pale and agitated, and I saw her hands trem- 
ble, as she gathered the scarf more closely round her. 

“Nora,” I exclaimed, “you have been too long in the 
night air. You should not have done so.” 

She did not answer, but stepping quickly forward, threw 
her arms round me, and laying her head on my bosom, 
burst into tears. I felt strongly affected. Why should 
Nora weep? All my air-castles were then blown to the 
ground, and I too wept over their ruins. In a few mo- 
ments Nora raised her head and wiped away her tears. 

“ I am so foolish,” she cried ; “ but I could not help it, 
my heart was so full. Dear Mrs. Worth, I am so happy.” 

“ Happy, Nora !” a mass of lead was lifted from my 
spirits. They rebounded at once. 

“ Oh yes, so happy, I have no language to express my 
boundless contentment. That is the right word, for I ask 
no more than just the blessing gained. You understand 
me, do you not, my own dear friend ?” 

“ I think — I know I do,” replied I, embracing her with 
deep emotion. “You have gained the heart of St. Leger j 
you have given him your own in return. There are not 
many such hearts, Nora. Oh ! you do well to prize it.” 

“ I am not so happy that I have won his heart, price- 
less as I deem it,” replied Nora, with enthusiasm, “as 
that I have given my own ; oh ! there is far more happi- 
ness in loving than in being loved. I began to fear that 
my twin-born soul had wandered so far from my peculiar 
sphere, our diverging paths would never meet in this 
world; sometimes my heart felt dull with the weight of its 
latent affections. I wondered why God had given me 
such capacities of loving without sending me a being to 
call them into exercise. The very first time I met St. 
Leger, the master chord of my heart vibrated, and I 
knew then it would vibrate forever. But not till this 
night was I assured that the impression was mutual, that 
I was loved as deeply and passionately as the wants of my 
nature require ; oh I it is the reaf-zation of a life-long 
dream.” 

“God bless you, dear Nora,” said I, “you deserve to 
be happy and you will be so. But will your parents con- 
sent to such a union ? will they be willing to resign you ?” 

“ They prize my happiness more than their own,” sho 


106 


THE RED VELOT BODICE. 


replied earnestly ; “ besides, if I do marry Mr. St. Leger,^ 
and she blushed crimson, as she said it, “ we will pass ali 
our winters at the South, and only our summers here. Will 
not that be delip^htful ?” 

“But Mr. Elmwood I” I exclaimed. 

“No one will rejoice more than himself in my prospec- 
tive happiness. He is the most disinterested of human 
beings. He knows my whole heart and I all of his. 
If I were in sorrow and trial I would go to him for com- 
fort. If I were deserted by all else, I would be sure of 
the fidelity of his friendship, the steadfastness of his 
regard.” 

In less than a fortnight your aunt Woodville left us, 
and took Nora with her. It seemed as if the sun were 
withdrawn from the sky, so much brightness vanished with 
her. But she came back as she had said with the flowers 
of spring, the happy wife of St. Leger I do believe she 
was happy if ever human being was ; for her dream of 
love was fully realized. He was the type of all that is 
noble and glorious in man ; she, all that is amiable and 
excellent in woman. 

“ Where do they live now, mother ?” asked Estelle. 
“ Have I ever seen them ?” 

“ No, ray dear ; at first it was just as she had planned. 
They spent their summers at the North, their winters at 
the South ; but she gradually drew him, without any ex- 
ertion on her part, to dwell in her milder latitude. He 
loved the South ; for the elements of his character are 
more congenial with it than the colder atmosphere of New 
England. He has a tropic nature, and accident only gave 
him a birth-place here. I correspond with Nora still. I 
will read you some of her letters, Estelle ; they are the 
transcript of a true woman's heart.” 

“ Thank you, mother; but did Mr. Elmwood marry ?” 

“No, my dear, he was. born to be the friend of man 
and womankind, not to be limited to the domestic sphere.” 

“There are are some sensible men in the world,” ob- 
•erve.i Aunt I’atty ; “ and he is one.” 


THE SNOW FLAKES. 



Ye’re welcome, ye white and featnery flakes, 

That fall like the blossoms the summer wind shakes 
From the bending spray — Oh ! say, do ye come. 

With tidings to me, from my far distant home? 

“ Our home is above in the depths of the sky 
In the hollow of God’s own hand we lie — 

We are fair, we are pure, our birth is divine— 

Say, what can we know of thee, or of thine?” 

I know that ye dwell in the kingdoms of air — 

I know ye are heavenly, pure, and fair ; 

But oft have I seen ye, far travelers, roam., 

By the cold blast driven, round my northern home. 

“We roam over mountain, and valley, and sea. 

We hang our pale wreaths on the leafless tree: 

The herald of wisdom and mercy we go, 

And perchance the far home of thy childhood we know. 

“We roam, and our fairy track we leave. 

While for nature a winding-sheet we wave — 

A cold, white shroud that shall mantle the gloom. 

Till her Maker recalls her to glory and bloom. 

Oh! foam of the shoreless ocean above! 

I know thou descendest in mercy and love: 

All chill as thou art, yet benigh is thy birth, 

As the dew that impearls the green bosom of Eartn. 

And I’ve thought as I’ve seen thy tremulous spray, 

Soft curling like mist on the brauches lay. 

In bright relief on the dark blue sky. 

That thou meltedst in grief when the sun came nigh. 

“Say, whose is the harp whose echoing song 
Breathes wild on the gale that wafts us along? 


( 107 ) 


108 


THE SNOW FLAKES. 


The moon, the flowers, the blossoming tree, 

Wake the minstrel’s lyre, they are brighter than we.” 

The flowers shed their fragrance, the moonbeams their lights 
Over scenes never vail’d by your drap’ry of white; 

But the clime where I first saw your downy flakes. 

My own native clime is far dearer than all. 

Oh! fair, when ye clothed in their wintry mail. 

The elms that o’ershadow my home in the vale, 

Like warriors they looked, as they bowed in the storm, 

With the tossing plume and the towering form. 

Ye fade, ye melt — I feel the warm breath 
Of the redolent South o’er the desolate heath — 

But tell me, ye vanishing pearls, where ye dwell. 

When the dew-drops of Summer bespangle the dellt 

“We fade, — we melt into crystalline spheres — 

We weep, for we pass through a valley of tears; 

But onward to glory — away to the sky — 

In the hollow of God’s own hand we Iva.” 


THE SOLDIER’S BRIDE 


It was verging toward the evening of an autumnal day, 
in the year 1777. The forests began to assume the varied 
and magnificent tints peculiar to this season, in an Ameri- 
can clime ; those rich, brilliant dyes, which, like the hectic 
glow on the cheek of consumption, while it deepens the 
charm and the interest of beauty, is yet the herald of de- 
cay. The prevailing hue was still of a deep, unfaded 
green, but the woods were girdled by a band of mingled 
scarlet, green, and yellow, whose gorgeous, rainbow-like 
colors, might well be compared to the wampum belt of the 
Indian, tracing its bright outline on the darker ground- 
work of the aboriginal dress. These inimitable tints were 
reflected in that mirror, which the children of the forest 
denominated the Silver Wave, known to ils by the more 
familiar but not less euphonious name of the Ohio; but 
its bosom was not then covered with those floating palaces 
which now, winged by vapor, glide in beauty and power 
over the conscious stream. The bark canoe of the savage, 
or the ruder craft of the boatman, alone disturbed the 
silence of the solitary water. On the opposite bank a rude 
fortification, constructed of fallen trees, rocks, and earth, 
over which the American flag displayed its waving stripes, 
denoted the existence of a military band, in a region as 
yet uncultivated and but partially explored. Toward 
this fort a canoe was rapidly gliding, whose motions were 
watched by the young commander, as he traversed the 
summit of the parapet, with a step which had long been 
regulated by the measured music of the “ear-piercing 
fife and spirit-stirring drum.^’ The canoe approached the 
shore, and as Captain Stuart descended to receive his for' 


THE SOLDIER S BRIDE. 


110 

est visitor, his eye, accustomed as it had beeL to the ma- 
jestic lineaments of the savage chief, could not withhold 
its tribute of involuntary admiration, as they were now 
unfolded to him, invested with all the pomp which marked 
his warlike tribe. He was indeed a noble representative 
of that interesting, but now degenerate race, once the sole 
possessors and lordly dwellers of the wilderness, now de- 
spoiled and wandering fugitives from a land chartered 
to them by the direct bounty of Heaven. The gallant tuft 
of feathers which surmounted his swarthy brow, the wam- 
pum girdle which belted his waist, his deer-skin robe, or- 
namented with the stained ivory of the porcupine, corre- 
sponded w^ell with the expression of his glittering eye, and 
the proportions of his martial limbs. From the lofty 
glance of that eye he had received the appellation of the 
Eagle ; but the commander of the fort now hailed him by 
the name of Sakamaw^, which simply signifies a chief. 

“ Brother,” said Sakaraaw, as he leaned with stately 
grace on his unstrung bow^, “brother, will the pale man 
. dwell in peace and friendship with the tribe of the Shaw^- 
-iiees, or shall the eagle spread its wings to the shore that lies 
nearer the setting sun ? The Mengwe have sworn to 
obey the white father, who lives far beyond the great Salt 
Lake. The wolf and the turtle have given their allegiance 
to him, and the serpent and the buffalo rise up against 
the pale tribe that are dwelling in our wilderness. Saka- 
maw, the friend of the white man, comes to warn him of 
the snare, to know if the Eagle shall curl his talons be- 
neath his folded plumes, or arm them with the wmr-bolt 
that shall find the heart of his enemy ?” 

It was not without the deepest emotion that Captain 
Stuart heard this intelligence, that the British army had 
received such pow^erful and dreaded allies as these fierce 
and vindictive tribes. He felt that he occupied a peri- 
lous station, and notwithstanding the high trust he 
had ahvays placed in Sakamaw, wdio w’as emphatically 
called the friend of the wdiite man, as he looked upon the 
dark brow and giant frame of the Indian warrior, all that 
he bad heard of the treachery and revenge of a sable race 
flashed upon his excited imagination. Captain Stuart 
was brave, but he was in arms against a foreign foe, w^he 
had stooped to the baseness of strengthening its power bj 


THE soldier’s BRIDE. 


Ill 


nil alli-ame with tlie children of the wilderness, ariLing in 
Its cause their wild, undisciplined jiassions, and adding 
all the horrors of border warfare to the desolation that 
hangs over the embattled held. He may be forgiven by 
the bravest, if for one moment his generous blood was 
chilled by the tidings, and suspicion darkened the glance 
which he turned on the imperturbable features of the Eagle 
chief. 

“Young man,” said the savage, pointing toward the 
river, whose current was there quickened and swollen by 
the tributary waters of the Kanawha, “as the Silver Wave 
rolls troubled there by the stream that murmurs in its bosom 
so does my blood chafe and foam when its course is ruffled 
by passion and revenge. Feel my veins — they are calm. 
Look on my bosom — it is bare. Count the beating of 
my heart, as it rises and falls, uncovered to the eve of the 
M aster of life. Were Sakamaw about to do a treacherous 
deed he would fold his blanket over his breast, that he 
might hide from the Great Spirit’s view the dark workings 
of his soul.” 

“Forgive me, noble chief!” exclaimed Stuart, extend- 
ing his hand with military frankness and warmth, “I de 
not distrust you ; you have come to us unweaponed, and 
we are armed ; you are alone, and we have the strength of 
a garrison ; and more than all, you warn us of treachery 
and hostility on the part of other tribes, and bring us of- 
fers of continued peace from your own. I cannot, I do- 
not, doubt your faith; but as the rules of war require some 
pledge as a safeguard for honor, you will consent to re- 
main awhile as hostage here, secure of all the respect 
which brave soldiers can tender to one, whose valor and 
worth has made the fame of this forest region.” 

Sakamaw assented to this proposal with proud, unhesi- 
tating dignity, and turned to follow the young officer, 
whose cheek burned through its soldierly brown as he- 
made the proposition, which military discipline required, 
but which he feared might be deemed an insult by the 
high-minded savage. Sakamaw cast his eyes for a moment, 
on the opposite shore, where it was immediately arrested, 
and his foot stayed in its ascent by the objects which, 
there met his gaze. An Indian woman, leading by the 
hand a ycung boy of the same tawny hue, approached to 


112 


THE soldier’s BRIDE. 


the water’s side, and by impressive and a| pealing gestures, 
seemed to solicit his attention and compassion. 

“ Why does the doe and the fawn follow the panther’s 
path muttered he to himself. “ Why do they come where 
the dart of the hunter may pierce them, and leave the 
shelter of their own green shady bowers ?” 

lie hesitated, as if resolving some doubts in his own 
mind, then springing into the canoe that lay beneath the 
bank on which he stood, he pushed it rapidly over the 
waters to the spot where they awaited him. Whether the 
dark shadow of future events cast its prophetic gloom be- 
fore him, softening his heart for the reception of conjugal 
and parental love, I know not, but there was something 
mysteriously tender in the manner in which he departed 
from the coldness and reserve peculiar to his race, and 
embracing his wife and son, placed them in the light bark 
he had just quitted, and introduced them into the presence 
of Stuart, who had witnessed with surprised sensibility 
the unwonted scene. The sensations which then moved 
and interested him have been since embodied in lines 
whose truth the poet most eloquently felt : 


“ Think not the heart in desert bred, 

To passion’s softer touch is dead — 

Or that the shadowy skin contains 
No bright or animated veins — 

Where, though no blush its course betrays, 

The blood in all its wildness plays !” 

Sakamaw,” said he, “you have decided well. Bring 
them to my cabin, and see how warm and true a welcome 
.a soldier’s wife can offer. The walls are rough, but they 
who share the warrior’s and the hunter’s lot, must not 
look for downy beds or dainty fare.” 

It was a novel and interesting scene, when the wife and 
son of the Indian chief were presented to the youthful 
bride of Stuart, who with generous, uncalculating ardor, 
had bound herself to a soldier’s destiny, and followed him 
to a camp, where she was exposed to all the privations 
and dangers of a remote and isolated station. As she 
proffered her frank, yet bashful welcome, she could not 
withdraw her pleased and wonderiig gaze from the dark, 
but beautiful features of the savage; clothV^n the peculiar 


THE soldier’s BRIDE. 


113 


costame of her people, the symmetry of her figure, and the 
gi-ace of her movements, gave a singular charm to the 
wild and gaudy attire. The refined eye of Augusta Stuart 
shrunk intuitively, for a moment, from the naked arms and 
uncovered neck of the Indian ; but there was such an ex- 
pression of redeeming modesty in her countenance, and 
her straight, glossy hair, falling in shining folds over her 
bosom, formed so rich a vail, the transient disgust was 
lost in undisguised admiration at the beauties of a form 
which a sculptor might have selected as a model for his 
art. The dark-haired daughter of the forest, to whose 
jintutored sight the soldier’s bride appeared fair and 
celestial as the inhabitant of a brighter sphere, returned 
her scrutinizing gaze with one of delighted awe. Her 
fair locks, which art had formed into waving curls on her 
brow, her snowy complexion and eyes of heavenly blue, 
beamed upon her with such transcendant loveliness, her 
feelings were constrained to utter themselves in words, as 
she had learned from her husband the language of the 
whites. • 

“Thou art fairer than the sun, when he shines upon the 
Silver TTane,” exclaimed Lehella, such being the name of 
the beautiful savage. “ I have seen the moon in her bright- 
ness, the flowers in their bloom, but neither the moon 
when she walks over the hills of night, nor the flowers 
when they open their leaves to the south wind, are so fair 
and lovely as thou, daughter of the land of snow.” 

The fair cheek of Augusta mantled with carnation, as 
the low, sweet voice of Lehella breathed forth this spon- 
taneous tribute to her surpassing beauty. Accustomed to 
restrain the expression of her own feelings, she dared not 
avow the admiration which had, however, passed from her 
heart into her eyes, but she knew that praise to a child 
was most acceptable to a mother’s ear, and passing her 
white hand over the jetty locks of the Indian boy, she 
directed the attention of her husband to the deep hazel of 
his sparkling eye, and the symmetrical outlines of a figure 
which bore a marked similitude to the chiseled represen- 
tations of the infant Apollo. The young Adario, how- 
ever, seemed not to apprec ate the favors of his lovely 
hostess, and shrinking from her caressing hand, accom- 
panied his father, who was conducir^ by Captain Stuart 
8 


114 


THE soldier’s bride. 


to the place where he was to make his temporary abode. 
The romance, wliicli gave a kind of exciting charm to the 
character of Angnsta, had now found a legitimate object 
for its enthnsiasm and warmth. By romance, I do not 
mean that sickly, morbid sensibility, which turns from the 
realities of life with indifference or disgust, yearning after 
strange and hair-breadth events — which looks on cold and 
unmoved, while real misery pines and weeps, and melts 
into liquid pearl at the image of fictitious wo — 1 mean 
that elevation of feeling which lifts one above the weeds 
of the valley and the dust and soil of earth — that sunny 
brightness of soul, which gilds the mist and the cloud, 
while it deepens the glory and bloom of existence — that 
all-pervading, life-giving, yet self-annihilating principle, 
which imparts its own light and energy to every thing 
around and about it, and animating all nature with its 
warmth and vitality, receives the indiscriminate bounties 
of heaven, the sunbeam, the gale, the dew and the flower, 
as ministers of individual joy and delight. Augusta had 
already begun to weave a fair vision for the future, in which 
the gentle Lehella was her pupil as well as her cotnpanion, 
learning from her the elegancies and refinements of civil- 
ized life, and iinj)arting to her, something of her own wild 
and graceful originality. She witnessed with delight the 
artless expression of wonder the simple decorations of her 
rude apartment elicited from her untaught lips, for though 
in the bosom of the wilderness, and dwelling in a cabin 
constructed of the roughest materials, the hand of feminiiie 
taste had left its embellishing traces, wherever it had 
touched. Wild, autumnal flowers mingled their bloom 
and fragrance over the rustic wdndow-frame ; sketches of 
forest scenery adorned the unplastered w^alls, and a guitar 
lying on the table, showed that the fair mistress of this 
humble mansion had been accustomed to a more luxurious 
home, and more polished scenes. I cannot but linger for 
a moment here, for to me it is enchanted ground — a beauti- 
ful and accomplished woman, isolated from all the allure- 
ments of the world, far from the incense of adulation, and 
the seductions of pleasure, shedding the light of her love 
liness on the bosom of wedded love, and offering the kresh 
and stainless blossoms of her affections on that si rine, 
which, next to altar of God. is hohest in hef 


THE soldier’s BRIDE. 


115 


eyes. But I must turn to a darker spot, ono which has 
left an ineffable stain in the annals of our domestic history, 
but which is associated with so many interesting events, I 
would fain rescue it from ob ivion. 

The next morning the gar-ison was a scene of confusion 
and horror. A party of soldiers had been absent during 
the evening on a hunting expedition, being a favorite 
recreation in the bright moonlight nights. ^ When the 
morning drum rolled its warning thunder, and* the hunters 
came not as wont to perform their military duties, a gen- 
eral feeling of surprise and alarm pervaded the fort. Gil- 
more, the next officer in rank to Stuart, had a very young 
brother in this expedition, and filled with fraternal anxiety, 
fee collected another party, and endeavored to follow the 
steps of the fugitives. After hours of fruitless search, 
they discovered a fatal signal, which guided their path, 
blood staining the herbage on which they trod, and plung- 
ing deeper into the forest, they found the murdered bodies 
of the victims, all bearing recent traces of the deadly 
scalping knife. The soldiers gazed on the mangled and 
disfigured remains of their late gallant comrades with 
consternation and dismay, when Gilmore, rousing from 
their stunning influence, rushed forward, and raising the 
body of his youthful brother in his arms, defaced and 
bleeding as it was, he swore a terrible oath, that for every 
drop of blood that had been spilled. Heaven should give 
him vengeance. The other soldiers, who had neither 
brother nor kindred among the ghastly slain, shrunk with 
instinctive loathing from their gory clay, but breathing 
imprecations against the savage murderers, they followed 
the steps of Gilmore, who, weighed as he was by his lifeless 
burden, with rapid and unfaltering course approached the 
fort 

“Behold!” cried he to Stuart, who recoiled in sudden 
horror at the spectacle thus offered to his' view, “behold!” 
and his voice was fearful in its deep and smothered tones, 
“had he been a man — but a boy, committed to my charge 
with the prayers and tears of a floating father — the Ben- 
jamin of his old age — oh ! by the shed blood of innocence 
and youth — by the white locks of age, I swear — to avenge 
his death on the whole of that vindictive race, who thus 
dare to deface the intage of their Maker — my poor, poor 


116 


THE soldier’s BRIDE. 


brother I” — and the rough soldier, overcome by the agony* 
of his grief, deposited the mangled body in the ground^, 
and throwing himself prostrate by its side, “ lifted up his 
voice and wept aloud.” The manly heart of Stuart was 
deeply affected by this awful catastrophe, and the violent 
emotion it had excited in one of the most intrepid of their 
band. That the treacherous deed had been committed 
by one of those tribes, of whose hostility Sakamaw had 
warned him, he could not doubt ; and he looked forward 
with dark forebodings to the stormy warfare that must 
ensue such bold and daring outrage. He turned toward 
Augusta, who, pale with terror, stood with her Indian 
friend, somewhat aloof from the dark-browed group that 
surrounded the mourner and the mourned, and the thought, 
that even the arm of love, “ stronger than death,” might 
not be able to shield her from the ravages of such an enemy, 
froze for a moment the very life-blood in his veins. Saka- 
maw was no unmoved spectator of the scene we have 
described ; but whatever were his internal emotions, his 
features remained cold and calm as the chisled bronze 
they resembled. He saw many a fierce and lowering 
glance directed toward him, but like'^^lightuing on the same 
impassive surface, neither kindling nor impressing, they 
played around the stately form of the eagle chief. 

“White warrior,” said he, advancing nearer to Stuart, 
in the midst of the excited soldiers, “ the Serpent has- 
coiled himself in the brake, to sting at the midnight hour. 
The Wolf has lurked in ambush, and his fangs are dripping 
with the blood of the young. But the Eagle soars in the 
noontide beam, and hurls the thunderbolt in the face of 
his foe. His children are guiltless of the innocent 
blood.” 

While Sakamaw was speaking, there was a sullen 
murmur of discontent among the soldiers — the low growl 
that harbingers the tempest’s wrath. Gilmore, too, rose 
from his recumbent position, and stood with clenched 
hands, shut teeth, ashy lips, and eyes that burned red and 
malignant through tears that the heat of revenge were 
now drying ere they fell. There is nothing so exasperat- 
ing to one inflamed by hot and contending passions, as 
the sight of stoic indifference or perfect self-control As 
the waters chafe and foam against the moveless cliff, that 


THE soldier’s BRIDE. 


117 


St ands it “ unblenched majesty ” in the midst of tbe raving 
element ; the tide of human passion rages most violently 
when most calmly opposed. 

“ Dog of an Indian 1” muttered Gilmore, “ painted hypo- 
crite I fiend of subtlety and guile ! How dare you come 
hither with your vain, boasting words, honey on your lips 
and gall and bitterness in your heart ? By the all-behold- 
ing heavens I you shall answer for every drop of blood 
spilled last night, by your own hand, or by the hands of 
your hellish tribe I” 

“ Gilmore, Gilmore 1” exclaimed Stuart, in a tone of 
deep command, “ you are worse than mad. Respect the 
laws of military honor, nor dare to insult one who has 
voluntarily surrendered himself as a hostage for his tribe. 
This chief is under my protection, under the guard and 
protection of every noble and honorable heart. Look 
upon him, he is unarmed, yet with generous trust and con- 
fidence he has entered the white man’s camp to warn him 
of the very outrages over which we now mourn. Gil- 
more, be a man, be a soldier, and command our sympathy 
not our indignation.” 

The voice of the young commander, which had been 
wont to suppress every expression of mutiny or discontent 
by its slightest tones, now made an appeal as vain as it 
was just. “ Down with the red dog I down with him, 
Gilmore I” burst forth and echoed on every side. Again 
did Stuart raise his commanding voice, till it rose high 
and clear as the sound of the bugle’s blast. He was an- 
swered by the same rebellious and daring shouts. Le- 
hella, who had looked on in wild, undefinable alarm, now 
comprehended the full extent of the danger which hung 
over the devoteH Sakamaw, and rushing through the 
lawless band, she wreathed her slender arms around his 
majestic frame in the unavailing hope of shielding him 
from their rage. 

“ Fly, Sakamaw, fly I” she exclaimed, “ the deer is not 
swifter than the foot of the hunter. Fly with Adario, 
from the home of the pale man. There is death in his 
gleaming eye.” 

“ Sakamaw will never fly from the face of his foe. The 
Great Spirit is looking iown upon my heart, and he sees it 
is white of the blood of the brave.” As the noble savage 
8 


THE soldier’s BRIDE. 


118 

uttered these words, lie looked up into the deep blue 
heavens, and drew back the deer-skin robe from his breast, 
as if inviting the scrutiny of the All-seeing to the recesses 
of his naked heart. It would seem that, 

“ If heaven ha<l not some hand 
In this dark deed,” 

such magnanimous sentiments would have arrested the 
course of their revenge, but they were blind, and deaf, 
and infuriated. Gilmoi’e felt in his bosom for the pistol 
which he carried for his own safeguard. Augusta saw the 
motion, which was unperceived by Stuart, who was en- 
deavoring to stem the torrent swelling around him ; with 
an irresistible impulse she pressed forward, and seized his 
arm at the very moment it was extended toward his victim. 
The motion and the report of the pistol were simultane- 
ous. The angel of mercy was too late — the death-shot 
pierced the bosom of Sakamaw, and the faithful breast 
that had vainly interposed itself between him and the im- 
pending blow. They fell — the forest oak and the car- 
ressing vine — blasted by the avenging stroke, and the 
pause that succeeds the thunder’s crash is not more awful 
than that which followed the deadly deed. 

“ Great . God !” exclaimed Stuart, “ what have you 
done ? All the rivers of the West cannot wash out this 
foul stain.” With feelings of bitter agony he knelt by 
the side of the dying chieftain and his martyred wife. 

“Sakamaw,” he cried, “friend, brother of the white 
man, speak, if you have breath to utter, and say you be- 
lieve me guiltless of this crime— would that I had died 
ere I beheld this hour.” 

The expiring Indian opened, for the last time, that eye 
which had been to his tribe a lamp in peace and a torch 
in war, but the eagle glance was quenched in' the mists of 
death. Twice he endeavored to speak, but the word 
*^Adario,^^ was all that was articulate. 

“ Yes, Sakamaw,” he cried, I will be a friend to thy boy 
through life; in death I will cherish him.” 

AVho can fatLoin the depth, the strength of a mother’s 
love ? Lehella, who had lain apparently lifeless on the 
bosom of Sakamaw, while Augusta, with bloodless cheeks 


THE soldier’s BRIDE. 


119 


and lips, hung weeping o’er her, seemed to arouse from 
the lethargy of death, at the name of her son. She raised 
her cold cheek from its bloody pillow, and joining together 
her hands, already damp with the dews of dissolution, ex- 
claimed in a voice unutterably solemn, while she lifted her 
dim and unwavering glance to heaven, “ OA, thou JEver'y- 
where, protect my aonP'"^ 

With this subihne adjuration to the Omnipotent Spirit 
of the universe, her soul made its transit, and Stuart and 
Augusta were left kneeling on either side of the dead 
bodies of the martyred Indians. 

It is painful to record a deed which must forever stain 
the annals of American history ; but now, while we glow 
with indignation at the tale of Indian barbarities on the 
frontiers of the West, let us remember the story of their 
past wrongs — let us think of the fate of the magnanimous 
Sakamaw, whose memory, 

“ In long after year?. 

Should kindle our blushes and waken our tears.” 

Years rolled on. The wilderness began to blossom 
“ like the rose,” and the solitary placesio look joyous with 
life and bright with promise ; while on the fair banks of 
the Ohio the inhabited village, the busy town, or the 
prouder city, rose in beauty and imitative splendor. It 
was where the father of ancient waters flows on in all the 
opulence of its waves, stiO deep in the bosom of the wil- 
derness, an isolated cabin reared its head through thick clus- 
ters of o’ershadowing vines and perennial trees. The moon 
showered down its virgin rays on the woods, the waters, the 
peaceful cottage, the rustling trees — and lingered in bright- 
ness round two solitary figures reclining on the bank, 
watching the course of the swelling stream. Its pallid 
beams revealed the features of a man, who had passed 
life’s vernal season, and was verging toward the autumnal 
gray ; but though the lines of deep thought or sorrow 
were distinctly marked on his pale brow, there was an air 

* This impreifiive prayer was in reality breathed by a dying Indian 

« other. 


120 


THE SOLDIER S BRIDE. 


of military dignity and command investing in his figure, 
which showed at once that his youth had been passed in 
the tented field. The other figure was that Of a young 
man, in all the vigor of earliest manhood, in the simple 
dress of a forester, with the swarthy cheek, glittering eye 
and jet-black locks of the Indian race. As we do not 
aim at mystery in the development of this simple story, 
we will gather up in a few words the events of years, in 
whose silent flight the young and gallant Stuart had be- 
come the subdued and pensive moralist, who sat gazing 
on the brink of the stream ; and Adario, the orphan boy 
of the murdered Sakamaw, the manly youth whose ardent 
yet civilized glance, reflected the gleams that shone fitfully 
round them. The young, the beautiful Augusta was now 
the dweller of “ the dark and narrow house,” and the 
widowed husband, disgusted with the world, retired still 
deeper into the shades of the West, with the child of his 
adoption, and one sweet inheritor of her mother’s charms, 
who had been baptized by the soft name of Lehella, in 
memory of the mother of Adario. The only daughter, 
accompanied by a maternal friend, had for the first time 
visited the scenes of her parent’s nativity, and it was to 
watch the boat which was to bring back the rose of the 
wilderness to the solitary bower that the father and Indian 
youth, night after night, lingered on the banks, catching 
the faintest sound which anticipation might convert into 
the ripple caused by the dipping oar. Restless and stormy 
unuttered feelings agitated the breast of Adario. Bred 
under the same roof, educated by the same enlightened 
and gifted mind, these children of the forest grew up to- 
gether entwined in heart and soul, like two plants, whose 
roots are wreathed, and whose leaves and tendrils interlace 
each other in indissoluble wedlock. The son of Sakamaw, 
the daughter of Augusta — the dark and the fair — the 
eagle and the dove ; it seemed to the sad and imagina- 
tive Stuart, that the spirit of the injured Sakamaw would 
rejoice in the land of ghosts, at the bond that should 
unite these descendants of their sundered tribes. Adario, 
tortured by jealousy and fear, awaited the return of Le- 
hella, with all the fiery impatience peculiar to the dark 
nation from whom he derived his existence, though in 
presence he was gentle and mild as the gentl©At of 


THE soldier’s BRIDE. 


121 

his sex, and all the harsher traits of the aboriginal char* 
acter were softened and subdued, retaining only that dig- 
nity and elevation we can never deny is their own legiti- 
mate dower. 

Though they had usually retired before the midnight 
hour, they remained this night longer, by a kind of mys- 
terious sympathy and indefinable apprehension. Clouds 
gathered over the calm and silvered Heavens, and gradually 
deepening in darkness, wrapt the woods and waters in 
their solemn shadows. A low, sullen growl, broke at in- 
tervals on the silence of the night, and they looked up 
anxiously for the flash which was to be herald of another 
peal of the yet distant thunder. All was gloom above, and 
around ; still the same sullen, murmuring sound, came 
more distinctly on the air, which was now damp with the 
laboring storm. At last, a light gleamed on the waters ' 
— bright, but still remote — and sent a long stream of 
radiance down the channel of the river, far as the spot 
where they were seated, gazing in a kind of fascination on 
the unwonted splendor. Louder and louder were those 
sullen murmurs, and deeper and brighter grew the ominous 
and lightning-like flashes that illumined the darkness of the 
wilderness. jOnward it came, as if containing the princi- 
ple of vitality in the fiery element that spread broader and 
fiercer around it — howling forth, as it came, those un- 
earthly sounds, which to the ear of an untutored savage, 
would have seemed the angry thunders of the Manitou. 
Standing on the very brink of the river with breathless sus- 
pense, they watched the approach of the blazing phantom, 
when the father, whose perceptions became clearer as it 
neared, and who had heard of those wondrous fabrics, one of 
those noblest inventions of human genius, that propelled by 
vapor, triumph in speed over the majestic ship or the 
lighter bark, believed he now, for the first time, beheld one 
of these wonders of the waves, enveloped in a glory which 
was only the herald of its destruction. The thought of 
his daughter, that she might be exposed to the awful fate, 
wrapped in those volumed flames, came over him like a 
death-blast. At this moment wild shrieks and tumultu- 
ous cries were heard confusedly mingling with the hoarse 
thunders and plunging sound of the waters — figures be- 
came visible through the sheets Hame, wreathed with 


122 


THE BOLDIER’S BRIDE. 


blackening smoke, that reflected now their .lurid bright- 
ness on the whole face of the sky. Suddenly a form bursi 
through the blazing curtain, like an angel of light mid the 
regions of despair — it was but a glimpse of loveliness ; 
but that one glimpse discovered the fair, far-waving locks, 
the snow-white brow, and beauteous outlines of the daughter 
of Stuart. They saw her stretch forth her virgin arms to 
the pitiless Heavens — then plunge through one devouring 
element into the cold embraces of another still as deadly. 
With one long, loud shriek of agony — the father and lover 
sprang from the shelving bank, and disappeared in the 
ignited waves 1 

The morning sun shone bright and clear on the black- 
ened wreck of the 3vening Star, the name of the devoted 
boat, and the waters flowed on calmly and majestically, as 
if they never echoed to the shrieks of the dying, or closed 
over the relics of human tenderness and love. The soli- 
tary cottage was still the abode of life, and youth, and 
hope. Adario and Lehella, redeemed from a fiery or a 
w^atery grave, were once more embosomed in its peaceful 
shades ; but they were orphans. The river of the West 
was now the sepulchre of the gallant soldier. Lfchella 
wept for her father — but she wept on the bosom of her 
lover ; and she felt she was not alone. 

It was a mysterious destiny that thus united the off- 
spring of two hostile nations in the loneliness of Nature, 
the sacredness of love, and the holiness of religion — for 
Adario had learnt to worship the Christian’s God. The 
.memory of Sakamaw, the friend of the white man, is still 
hallowed in the traditions of the West; but many a 
traveler passes by the cottage of the wilderness, and gazes 
on its shaded image in the current that bears him along, 
unconscious that the son of the eagle chief, and the 
daughter of his brave defender, dwell within its secluded 
walls. 


DE LARA’S BRIDE 


^Ere yet tbe curtain lifts its vailing fold, 

Now o’er scenes of tragic art unroll’d, 

The eye of hope this brilliant ring surveys 
And draws prophetic radiance from the ga»». 

The third sad sister of the seraph choir, 

Who wake the music of the deep-toned lyre, 

'I'his night, presiding genius of the Stage, 

Has searched tlie hoarded treasures of au age. 

Rich in the dearest memories of earth — 

In chivalry, devotion, valor, worth — 

She comes, with thorns upon her pallid brow. 
Though thorns and sorrow lurk beneath their glaw. 
The passions follow darkly in her train. 

Wild as the billows of the storm-swept main; 

But reason. Nature vindicate their cause. 

And conscience writhes o’er its insulted laws. 

Who has not felt, when reeling o’er the verge, 

Of crime to which temptations madly urge, 

A n antepast of that undying sting — 

That quenchless fire, prepared for guilt’s dread king 
And shrunk, as if the Lord’s avenging wrath 
Had placed upbraiding phantoms in their path ? 

To paint these agonies, to show the wreck 
Of Mind’s })roud sovereignty when on the neck 
Of unthroned reason Passion victor stands, 

While pale Remorse in stealth its victim brands I 
’riiis is the empire of the heaven-born maid — 

May no polluting steps or realms invade. 

Never may that celestial fire, which erst 
From Pindus’ mount in flames of glory burst, 
Descend to gild that scene where vice maintains 
Its sorcej'y o’er the slave within its chainji — 

Where genius forms unholy league with fame. 

And makes itself immortal by its shame. 

Ye sons of Erudition ! classic band ! 

Rulers of taste ! in this unshackled land— 


124 


DE LARA’S BRIDE. 


All tliat ye can, in candor, truth accord, 

To this new candidate of fame award. 

Man’s own justice may relax its frown, 

When woman aims to win the laurel crown. 

Till now, the smiles of partial friends have warm’d 
The germs of fancy, their fond love disarm’d 
Relenting criticism — vail’d in mist 
Each venial error. In the crowded list 
Of Bards, adventurous champion now she waita, 
As stood the fabled Sylph at Eden’s gates, 
Trembling to know if hers w^re that bright gift, 
Of power the everlasting bars to lift. 

Daughters of loveliness ! we turn to you— 

Stars of the arch, fair bending on the view ; 

’Tis yours to kindle that propitious beam 
Whose visioned radiance gilds the poet’s dream. 
To you a sister, in the bard, appeals 
For all that woman most devoutly feels. 

Most dearly prizes — pure spontaneous praise. 

Oh ! when some unseen hand these folds shall raiso 
May some kind genius o’er the walls preside. 

And more than welcome great De Lara's Btide, 


THE 


PREMATURE DECLARATDN OF LOVE 


“ BitOTHER Tim — do pray be careful, and not brush 
the leaves of ray orange trees so briskly ; you always step 
so quick. Take care, don’t tread on the hearth. It has 
been painted this morning, and is not yet dry. There, 
you have left a track ; it is too late ; but old bachelors 
never know what to do with themselves. They are always 
in the way.” 

“ Nay, sister, you know I did not mean to do it ; I was 
only trying to get out of the way of the orange leaves. 
As for being an old bachelor, I may be one, to be sure ; 
but you know it would not be prudent for me to be other- 
wise.” 

Before I go on with the conversation, it may be well to 
introduce the readers to the speakers, as well as to some 
other members of the same family, who will be hereafter 
mentioned. Mrs. Butler, the lady, was one of the best 
wives, best mothers, and best neighbors in the world, ac- 
cording to oral fame, for which the village to which she 
belonged was notorious. Her house was the mirror of 
neatness and taste, but as her taste was kept in constant 
restraint by the unrelaxing parsimony of her husband, it 
was truly admirable to see the ingenuity with which she 
would make the “ worse appear the better” thing. Their 
furniture was of the most ordinary kind, but no parlor 
looked more enticingly pretty than theirs ; she always had 
so many tumblers of fresh blooming flowers on the side- 
board, tables and mantel-piece, such luxuriant branches of 
evergreen in the chimney, and festoons of oak -leaves and 
woodbine around the white- washed walls. No one could 
tell what kind of frame the old looking-glass had, through 
the neat folds of the starched muslin that enveloped it, 
and no one would have imagined that the bright green 

( 125 ) 


126 the premature declaration of love. 

baize, that almost covered the carpet, ihowing oiilv a 
handsome border, concealed the old, faded, worn-out relic 
of a prior generation. But to see Mrs. Butler in her 
pride, you must follow her into the garden, and a lovely 
garden it was. The wild-brier, the thorn, and the thistle 
may now choke the sweet blossoms which once bloomed 
profusely there, and the kind, active hand that planted and 
reared them be cold and powerless, but at tlie time which I 
speak it presented the fairest avenues of sweets I ever beheld. 
Bich exotics and tropical plants mingled their patrician 
odors and tints with the less valued but beauteous otfspring 
of our own ruder latitudes. There were bowers within 
bowers ; the yellow jassmine, with its bright golden blos- 
soms and deep, shining, slender green leaves ; the grace- 
ful clematis or virgin’s bower, with its clusters of purple, 
melting into the softest blue ; the multiflora, fairest, most 
modest of vines ; the coral honeysuckle hanging its rich 
petals, as if of ocean-birth, amid the velvet verdure of the 
wreathing leaves ; the magnificent trumpet-flower, looking 
like the very coronet of victory itself, and all the loving 
and lovely families of vines. Then there were tulips, and 
ionquils, and narcissuses, and hyacinths, and violets, and 
heart’s-eases, and primroses, and snow-drops, and roses, 
and rosemaries, and all the sweet-smelling shrubs in the 
universe, from the fragrant clover to the aromatic cala- 
canthus. Then fruit-trees and bushes of every descrip- 
tion, even to the rare pomegranate, whose scarlet flowers 
glow so beautifnlly through the brilliant green of its 
foliage, giving promise of the scarlet and orange-colored 
fruit that is to succeed it. But there is no end to the 
beauties of this little world of Flora. I believe if I should 
write for a week without cessation I could not enumerate 
half its wonders or excellencies. So great was its fame, 
Mrs. Butler was almost obliged to live in it, and it was a 
pleasant life to her ; whoever wanted herbs for medicinal 
beverage, savory and thyme for broth, sage for sausages, 
or wormwood for bruises, sent to Mrs. Butler; whoever 
desired a bouquet for a party, or flowers to ornament a 
mantel-piece, or a few nice figs or apricots for a friend, 
sent to Mrs. Butler ; and let it be recorded to her honor 
she never refused, though her plants and flowers were dear 
to her as her heart’s blood. But we have kept the good 


THE PREMATURE DECLARATI jN OF LOVE. 127 

woman so long in her garden we forgot Brother Tim, 
whom we left in the dining-room, at a most resj)ectful dis- 
tance from the orange bush, and looking meekly and 
mournfully at the ^rack his unfortunate foot had made on 
his sister’s vermillion hearth. It must not be supposed, 
among Mrs. Butler’s almost innumerable excellencies, she 
was not one of the best sister’s in the world. The very 
perfection of her virtne in this relation rendered her con- 
stantly annoying to his peace, for she justly considered 
ridicule the most powerful instrument of attack, when the 
party in question is of a timid and self-distrustful charac- 
ter. K she did scold him for his gaucheries, it was in so 
good-natured a manner it passed for merely raillery with 
others, though he always answered her with a meekness 
and solemnity truly diverting To see him married was 
the darling wish of her heart. She had a perfect horror 
of old bachelors. The comparisons she had so often 
heard drawn between them and a dry stalk, a blasted fig- 
tree, or a blossomless, fruitless shrub, were associated iu 
her mind with such mournful images, she was determined, 
if possible, to avert such a misfortune as to have one of 
these useless cumberers of God’s fair earth, entailed upon 
her otherwise flourishing family. What grievous mis- 
takes good people sometimes make, out of the very abun- 
dance of activity of their benevolence. A cumberer of 
the earth I — useless I Never did there exist a more oblig- 
ing, industrious, busy (there is a great difference between 
industrious and busy — a person may be industrious with- 
out our being conscious of it at the moment, whereas a 
busy one never escapes observation.) Mrs. Butler little 
knew how dependent she was upon the kind offices and 
indefatigable attentions of this humble, lonely brother of 
hers. Who turned the bobbin, made her lace frames, 
mended her broken china, and brought her the nearest 
wild flowers of the forest ? Who stuffed the blue-bird, 
and little wren, and solemn owl that adorned her mantel- 
piece ? Who but Brother Tim ? Then the children — 
what could they do without him ? He made their whis- 
tles, kites, and bows and arrows, Iragged them in a little 
w'agon manufactured by his own hands, made images of 
dog’s and sheep’s heads on the wall, and cried ba-a and 
bow-wow, to amuse the exacting monkeys. There waa 


128 the premature declaration of love. 

lothing too much to ask of his inexhaustible good-nature, 
nothing too much for it to grant ; yet such is the per- 
verseness and ingratitude of our natures, his own sister, 
the very best woman in the village, compared him to 
the unprofitable weed that gives back no sweetness to 
the air, in return for its genial influence. I think I see 
him before me, with his meek, small countenance, his 
sleek, sparse, sandy locks, and* thin, sharp blue-tipped 
nose, that gave an inexpressible air of forlornness to 
his face. It looked as if it were ill able to bear alone 
the bleak winds of this adverse world, and had already 
miserably shrunk from the contact — a voice seemed 
to issue from its very tip — “ Oh ! who would inhabit 
this bleak world alone ?” Kind, honest-hearted Timo- 
thy Fuller — did merit meet on earth its just reward, did 
the pure in heart receive in this world the exalted rank 
they take^ in the beatitudes, thou wouldst have sat in 
the high places of thy country’s glory ; the richest sheaf 
in the harvest of moral excellence, to which inferior ones 
should bow down, as in Joseph’s ancient dream. Never 
was guile or malice found on thy unoffending lips ; they 
dropped the honey of human kindness as naturally and 
freely as the Arabian tree its medicinal gum. But I grow 
poetical in thy praises, and am forgetting other important 
personages in the drama of life, in which thou actedst thy 
noble part. Mr. Butler could never be overlooked by one 
who loves to study human nature, and to observe the va- 
rious aspects the ‘‘ mighty mother” assumes. Mr. Butler, 
the merchant, the deacon, the sheriff, the man of dollars 
and cents, of small gains and great savings, the cold, blue 
worshiper of Mammon, yet walking with suJa severe cor- 
rectness none would dare to say he was not a sober, con 
scientious, upright Christian. He ground the poor for 
the last cent they owed him ; and when, with a pale cheek 
and quivering lip, and long-drawn sigh, poverty put up 
the empty purse, and turned away from the merciless 
creditor, Mr. Butler would sigh too, and compress his 
narrow lips — fit opening for his narrow soul^^ — and say, 
“ It is hard, to be sure, to part with one’s all ; but then it 
is a debt, and my family must be supported ; every body 
must take care of his own;” and the next Sunday at 
church he would sit in his long, sanctimoiiicus, dark sur* 


THE PREMATURE DECLARAllON OY LOVE. 121^ 

tout, and repeat to himself, while the pious minister was 
breathing forth his divine aspirations, *' I thank heaven I 
am not as other men are, extortioners,” &c., and lifting 
up his hard stony eyes, he believed all the worldly sins 
of the week effaced by the exemplary devotion of the sev- 
enth day. He did not enter into his wife’s views, with 
respect to her brother, for he deemed him too simple to 
support a family himself ; and that he would consequently 
bring an additional expense upon them. Mrs. Butler was 
too generous and uncalculating to reflect upon the fu- 
ture where her own interest was concerned, but she re- 
spected, perhaps I ought to s&y, feared her husband’s 
prejudices, and always forebore in his presence to assail 
poor Tim in his “vital, vulnerable part.” Her good 
genius was, nevertheless, constantly at work, and she was 
determined not to slacken her exertions, till she had 
brought about a matrimonial engagement between her 
brother and Miss Submit Schoolcraft, the amiable and 
unimpeachable spinster of the parish. 

I was going to describe Miss Submit Schoolcraft or as 
her friends familiarly called her. Miss Mitty, — but as peo- 
ple are best known by their manners and conversation, and 
as I have already appropriated considerable time to the 
delineation of characters, when I only intended to speak 
of their actions, I will introduce her, and suffer her ta- 
ingratiate herself by her own undescribed attractions. 

“ Now this is very kind of you. Miss Mitty, to come and 
Bee me, without waiting to be sent for ; take off your 
bonnet and sit here by the door, where it is cool, and you 
can see the flowers. Timothy, give my feather fan to Miss 
Mitty ; don’t you see how warm she looks ? I didn’t ask 
you to tread on my foot though, but old bachelors are 
always in the way.” 

“ Sister, I am sure I didn’t mean to do it,” exclaimed 
the blushing Tim, extending the fan at arm’s length to 
Miss Mitty, who sat with imperturbable composure, the 
warmth of the season glowing on a cheek which always 
wore the dry, unvarying bloom of the winter apple. 

“Well, Miss Mitty,” continued Mrs. Butler, “what 
scheme have you on hand, for the good of others ? You 
are always going about seeking out the sick and the 
afflicted j I don’t know what we could do without you m 


130 the premature declaratdn op love. 

the village. You must not think of getting married, 
unless, and she glanced her good-natured eye at her brother, 

‘‘ unless some smart deserving bachelor hem — 

Miss Mitty put he^ smooth cambric handkerchief to her 
face, and said she was very glad if she were able to do 
any good in the world ; that time was short, and life uncer- 
tain, and a great many other pious, sensible remarks, 
which made a great impression on the amiable mind of 
Mrs. Butler, and made her more than ever anxious to 
secure so exemplary a helpmeet for brother. I am doing 
great injustice to Miss Mitty not to describe her person. 
To introduce a heroine without a description is unpardon- 
able ; I acknowledge my error, and hasten to correct it. 
Though evidently past the sunny bloom of youth, there 
was an air of freshness and vigor, a kind of evergreen 
verdure about her exceedingly becoming. Her complexion 
was not remarkable for its delicacy, but at a little distance, 
the starch or powder, with which she perfectly covered 
her face, might well pass for the lilies of nature. Her 
hair was of a faded flaxen, and combed back with severe 
precision from her brow, corresponded well with the plain- 
ness and neatness of a dress which was never known to be 
in disorder. Altogether, Miss Mitty was a very comely 
and personable young lady, and if skillful physiognomists 
conld detect a certain air of self-complacency or self-right- 
eousness in her countenance, who could blame her ? Was 
she not the patroness of Sunday Schools and Charity 
Schools, the disseminator of Tracts, the presenter of sub- 
scription papers, the almoner of others’ bounties, the 
primum mobile of the whole neighborhood ? She had 
a kind of moral sagacity in finding out distressed objects, 
that was unequalled. She knew the history of every man, 
woman and child, within a dozen miles of the church. 
Did she hear of an intemperate man, who wasted his sub- 
stance in riotous living, and impoverished the wife and 
children, he was bound to support, she neither slumbered 
nor slept, till she had made a visit to his house, and ex- 
horted and sermonized him upon his neglected duties, and 
inevitable ruin. Did she^hear of an idle, an inipi evident, 
or a slatternly woman, she immediately selected an appro- 
priate Tract, begged for a comb and hair-brush, and cake 
of castile soap, and presented them to the delinquent 


THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 131 

sister, with fitting words of counsel and warning. In 
short, she was a female St. Paul — “ in season and out of 
season’’ — the unslumbering guardian of the morals and reli- 
gion of the village of H . But somehow or other, her 

unceasing exertions were not crowned with the success 
they merited. The drunkard resumed his burning draught, 
and breathed out a deeper curse against “ preachers in 
bonnets, and idle bnsybodies.” The slattern cast the un- 
appreciated gifts aside, and “ wished old maids would not 
be so meddlesome, and keep their advice till wanted or 
asked.” This was all very ungrateful, but human nature 
is made up of strange inconsistencies. Perhaps it may be 
that charity, like religion, must be breathed in the still, 
small voice, that its influence must be as soft and unosten- 
tatious as the snow that falls unheard and almost unseen, 
upon its flaky sisters of the clouds, and then, like that 
gentle snow, when melted by the returning sun, it will sink, 
and moisten, and fertilize, till moral flowers spring forth 
in the spring-time of the heart. I will not now pause to 
penetrate into the mysteries of metaphysics, but Miss 
Mitty was certainly often called ''officious and trouble- 
some^^ when her back was turned, by the objects of her 
tender mercies, while more discerning individuals, like Mrs. 
Butler, inhaled with delight the odor of her sanctity, and 
marveled at her labors of love. 

An hour passed away in edifying conversation between 
Mrs. Butler and her friend, with an occasional remark from 
Timothy, to which Miss Mitty listened with the most flat- 
tering attention, when supper was announced, and Mr. 
Butler, having transacted the business of the day, returned 
to take his accustomed seat at his wife’s hospitable board. 
Yes, in spite of himself it was hospitable, and all who 
shared it felt the influence of her spirit. Mr. Butler’s 
presence, however, was always a counteracter ; to look 
upon him reminded one of a north-east storm. He never 
failed at table to discourse upon the virtues of temperance 
and the sin of gluttony and excess, particularly if he had 
any guests. Miss Mitty was always blest with a charm- 
ing appetite, though she ate slowly, and took very small 
pieces at a time. Mr. Butler must have groaned in spirit 
at the innumerable small pieces that were slid in slow, 
regular progression on* her plate. If he could have in- 


132 the premature declaration op love 

vented a method by which people could live without eat* 
in^, and consequently without much expense, he would 
have been the happiest man in the world. It was several 
evenings after this Mrs. Butler told her brother, he had 
an opportunity offered him of showing his kindness, good- 
ness, and zeal ; that Miss Mitty, who had been an inde- 
fatigable instrument in promoting the Sunday-school every 
Sunday afternoon, and who had already got it in a most 
prosperous way, was anxiously in search of a person who 
would open the school in a proper manner, with prayer 
and hymning. Mrs. Butler added — (I am ah’aid it was a 
spontaneous suggestion of her own) — that Miss Mitty 
knew of no one so well calculated as himself for that office, 
and that she would have made a personal application, had 
not modesty and propriety, &c., prevented her. Timothy 
blushed scarlet deep at the proposition, stammered out 
something about incapacity and prudence, got up and 
walked toward the door, casting a furtive glance at the 
looking-glass, thinking it possible Miss Mitty had taken 
a fancy to the cut of his face, and doing homage in his 
heart to her judgment and taste. Far be it from me to 
throw a shadow of ridicule upon these holy institutions 
which have been and continue to be the blessing of the 
land, or to speak lightly of that spirit of active benevo- 
lence and piety which, in imitation or man’s divine exem- 
plar, ^oes about doing good. But in sketching from real 
life we must take the evil with the good, the tares with the 
wheat. If Miss Mitty’s high sense of duty and conscien- 
tious desire to be useful, was marred in its exercise by too 
much ostentation, and parade, and bustle, it surely is not 
my fault ; I would not add one shade the more or one ray 
the less. I would portray Miss Mitty just as she is, or 
was, considering her perfect in her kind ; and as for Timo- 
thy Fuller, my heart warms within me at the very recol- 
lection of his simple, confiding excellence. Behold him 
on the following Sabbath, in obedience to his sister’s 
admonitions, winding his quiet way through the sweet, 
shaded path that led to the village church. It is a fair, 
warm, blue-skyed, soft-aired summer day. The birds sing 
their melodious hallelujahs amid the cool green boughs, 
and all nature reflects in peaceful loveliness the glorious 
■mile of its Creator. Timothy feels the gracious infill- 


THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OF LOVE. 133 

'Cnces around him. He is grateful Ibr his being, grateful 
for his capacities for gratitude, and his opportunities for 
serving his great Task-master. The incense that arises 
from his heart is unadulterated with one particle of envy 
or vain-glory. He is dressed with unusual care, but that 
is rather his sister’s doing than his own, who laid his 
buffest vest and whitest cravat on the toilet of his cham- 
ber, and ordered the servant to polish his boots till they 
resembled the brightest japan. Some one said they saw 
him looking at himself in one of his brass buttons, and 
smooth his hair over his forehead, before entering the 
^oor of the church, but I do not believe a word of it ; he 
was no coxcomb. 

The children were all arranged in the nicest order, and 
Miss Mitty was moving from class to class, as if she had 
the power of ubiquity. As soon as he entered she became 
stationary, and he felt that his presence was acknowledged. 
There was a half conscious, odd kind of expression in her 
countenance, followed by a look of deeper gravity, upon 
observing a saucy smile upon the lips of some of the 
urchins. Timothy saw the smile, and his bosom quaked , 
the horror of being laughed at, which every bashful person 
has experienced, came over him as a thick darkness. He 
had not realized before the magnitude of the office. From 
earliest childhood he had been accustomed to offer up his 
morning and evening sacrifices of prayer and praise, and 
to make melody with his lips unto Heaven. It had seemed 
to him in perspective an easy task to lift up his voice 
before untaught and uncriticising children, and a devout 
and kind-judging woman. But it was in vain to think 
of retracting, the ordeal must be past ; so, opening his 
trembling lips, he began that sublime and simple petition, 
the first that infant innocence is taught to utter — “ Our 
Father, who art in heaven.” There seemed to be a magic 
in the sentence ; his voice grew steady, and lifted by the 
real fervor of his feelings, he forgot himself and his audi- 
tors, and when he had concluded, the serious brows of the 
children bore witnesjs to the hallowed influence of true 
And unaffected piety. Timothy rejoiced in spirit that 
what he had commenced so fearfully had terminated so 
well. Gathering courage from success, he approached 
within four yards of Miss Mitty, and offered, with many 
9 


134 the premature declaration or love. 

hems and coughs, if it would not be considered an iif ru. 
sion, and if it was thought he had the proper qualification, 
to assist her in taking a class. Miss Mitty looked as if 
she would have blushed if the steady bloom of her cheek 
had admitted. She certainly ooked pleased, said every 
thing that was proper on such an occasion, acknowledged 
that she had long wished for a fellow-laborer, and admit- 
ted it as the omen of better things. Never was Timothy 
better satisfied with the world in which he lived, than when 
the duties of the day being ended, he found himself walk- 
ing side by side with Miss Mitty, through the same beau- 
tiful path, actually carrying her basket of books though 
a cold sweat covered his forehead at his own presumption, 
when he proposed to relieve her of her burden. A rich 
crimson was beginning to mantle the blue of the western 
horizon ; the air breathed softer and balmier. Timothy 
looked at the sky, at the trees, and the ground. His soul 
expanded at the magnificence of the scene. He felt called 
upon to express his emotions, but knew not how to em- 
body them. 

“Miss Mitty,” at length said he, “hem — hem — Miss 
Mitty, is it not a very pretty evening ?” 

“ Very pretty, indeed ; I think it grows a little cooler.” 

“I don't know; I haven’t observed any clouds.” 

Miss Mitty raised her eyes as she spoke toward the 
heavens, and as she brought them down to earth, she hap- 
pened to rest them on Timothy, who, by a singular coin- 
cidence, happened to be looking at her. The glance was 
very kind and approving, and might have encouraged a 
more bashful man. 

“ What was it you said, ma’am ?” 

“Sir!” 

“ I beg pardon ; I thought you were going to say 
something.” 

“No, sir — ” 

A dead pause succeeded, and poor Timothy could noi 
think of any thing else to say. They were very near home ; 
a beautiful rose-bush grew close to the path, and spread 
out its fair blossoms so invitingly, Timothy could not help 
plucking one. 

“ Do you like roses. Miss Mitty ?” 

“Yes, s’r; rery much, ind<ed ” 


THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OF LOVE. 135 

Would you — like this rose — Miss Mitty ?” 

This was uttered with a dreadful effort, and the rose 
trembled in his hand, as if shaken by the evening breeze. 
The lady took it with a gracious smile, touched it to her 
nostril, then put it in her belt on the left side. What 
apparently trifling things change the color of one’s des- 
tiny 1 A solitary grain of musk will perfume a room for 
many years, a single flower given and taken may impart 
fragrance to a whole existence. This was the first otter- 
ing Timothy had ever made to any woman, his sister 
excepted, and the recollection of his courage made him 
feel dizzy when he was alone. 

From that memorable day the duties of the Sunday- 
school were never neglected. Every Sunday saw them 
associated in the interesting task of instruction and exhort- 
ation, and so admirably did his meekness and humility 
temper Miss Mitty’s parading virtues, the school w'as 
never known to be under such happy auspices. Every 
Sunday during the season of flowers was a rose timidly 
offered and kindly received, but matters went no further. 
In vain Mrs. Butler rallied and scolded him for being an 
old bachelor ; he always answered, “ He did not think it 
prudent to be otherwise.” There was one auspicious 
omen, however; he now invariably ended the sentence 
with a sigh, and was often observed to lean his head on his 
band and look abstractedly on the wall. To judge truly 
of a man’s thoughts we must follow him in the solitude 
of his own room, and such a room as Timothy’s was well 
worth being admitted into. It had once been an office, 
and was attached to Mr. Butler’s store, where he some- 
times officiated as merchant pro tern. It was a miniature 
gallery of the fine arts, a miniature menagerie, aviary ; a 
a little world displayed. There were pictures of his own 
painting, (for Timothy was an artist of the most original 
kind, as every one who ever saw his paintings must ac- 
knowledge,) adorning the walls — stuffed birds and living 
birds in cages — the prettiest little gray and white kitten 
with a cork tied to its tail ; a large tortoise-shell cat ; 
several snakes in green glass bottles ; a tame squirrel * 
coral sea-fans and some pieces of a petrified wig; all tne 
wonders of earth, air and sea condensed and harmonized. 
To preserve and cherish these treasures, and add to their 


136 the premature declaration of IX) vb. 

number was one of the great objects of Timothy’s exist* 
ence, or rather had been, for his whole soul was no longer 
absorbed in them. There was something wanting, which 
he had never been conscious of before. The plumage of 
his birds was as soft and bright, but it no longer charmed 
his eye or their warbling his ear. His little kitten frisked 
and frolicked as gracefully, and his squirrel held a nut 
in his paws as cunningly as ever — they did not divert him 
as they were wont to do. “ What can be the matter with 
me?” said he one day to himself, as he sat in the midst of 
his curiosities and pets. “ There is nothing I can do to 
please myself. I can’t paint any thing striking or natural ; 
my snakes don’t look as handsome as they used to ; my 
?at don’t purr half as pretty ; I’m tired of all my pets ; I 
must get a new one.” Just at that moment a figure glided 
by the window, whose discreet motions and measured step 
were not to be mistaken. The pulsations of his heart were 
mysteriously quickened. He went to the window and 
looked wistfully after her. She was dressed in white, 
and looked remarkably nice and airy. “ Ah !” exclaimed 
ne, continuing his soliloquy, “ I think I know what is the 
matter ; I believe it is Miss Mitty after all ; what an im- 
prudent man I am I” and Timothy leaned his head upon 
the window frame with a penitential sigh. “ It was sister 
that put all this into my head ; I never should have 
thought of it myself; I wonder if she feels as I do 
There was a charm in this speculation which he found 
irresistible. He recalled her kind looks, her invitation to 
nim to officiate in so responsible an office, her frequent 
risits to his sisters, till he convinced himself they were 
both indulging in very tender sentiments, which prudence 
expressly forbade ; he had no fortune, and how could he 
marry ? He never thought of the possibility of making 
one by his own exertions. His humility would have 
startled at such a suggestion. He had a wealthy uncle 
who lived in a neighboring State, who had no children of 
his own, whom he thought it not impossible would leavo 
him a handsome legacy ; but this uncle was in the prime- 
of life, vigorous and robust, who probably thought as 
little of dying as Timothy himself. The only course which 
he deemed it prudent to pursue, was to conceal his grow- 
ing tenderness from the object who inspired it, and going 


THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OF LOVE. ]37 

Steadily forward in the straight line of duty, reconcile him- 
self as much as possible to his solitary existence. But 
for the first time in his life, he experienced a conflict be* 
tween inclination and principle. It was, a hard trial to 
his resignation. The distressed expression of his face 
was noticed that night at table by Mr. Butler, who sel- 
dom noticed any thing but the quantity of food de- 
voured. 

“Timothy,” said he, what are you thinking of? You 
have been looking into the salt-cellar for ten minutes 
steadily. Do you see any motes in it ? I hope I have 
n6t been cheated in it : I paid a high price for it, to bo 
sure.” 

“ Oh I never mind the salt,” interrupted his considerate 
wife, “ he does not feel very well. Here, Tim, drink some 
of this cool butter-milk; it will do you good.” 

“Thank you, sister, I do not feel quite well to-night.” 

He blessed her in silence for not calling him an old 
bachelor, and poured the buttermilk unconsciously into 
his coffee. 

“I wish Miss Mitty were here,” exclaimed Joseph But- 
ler, the eldest son of Mr. Butler, a mischievous youth of six- 
teen, with rosy cheeks and black curling locks, the idol of 
his mother, the torment of the household, the dread of his 
uncle ; “I wish Miss Mitty Schoolcraft were here ; don^t 
you, uncle ?” 

“Phew I” said Mr. Butler, turning up his long nose, 
“ let Miss Mitty stay at home ; she has too large an 
appetite to please me ; her small pieces amount to a 
respectable quantity, to be sure they do.” 

Where is the lover who can hear a reflection upon the 
beloved object, without an indignant glow? Timothy’s 
blood rose, and miraculous as it may seem, he dared to 
vindicate her. 

“I think,” he stammered forth, “I think Miss Mitty 
shows her discretion in eating slowly ;•! have heard Dr. 
Philler say, it was not prudent to swallow too fast.” 

“Miss Mitty is indeed a model of prudence,” said Mrs. 
Butler, “in everything; I wish all the young women of 
the present generation were like her ; she will make an 
admirable wife, and he will be a happy man that gets 
her.” 


9 


138 the premature declaration of love. 

Mrs Butler had never ventured to say so much before 
her husband, but she was soon silenced. 

“ Mrs. Butler,” cried he, in a solemn tone, laying down 
his knife and fork, “ you had better be done with your 
nonsense ; I really believe you have been putting some of 
your ridiculous conceits in Tim’s head ; a pretty husband 
he would make, to be sure — with nothing but his birds, 
and cats, and snakes, to support a wife and family.” 

“ I don’t think of such a thing as being married, Mr. 
Butler,” said Timothy, with a dignity never assumed be- 
fore, “ I know it would be very imprudent ; if I got a 
legacy from my uncle, it would alter the case ; but that is 
very uncertain, indeed.” 

A sigh which might have softened a heart of stone, 
concluded this speech, but it made no visible impression 
on the indurated bosom of Mr. Butler. Joe Butler w'as 
observed to be unusually mischievous that evening, (after 
his father had left the house,) overturned every thing that 
came in his way, and shook his black curls as if brooding 
over something of vast import. 

Things remained in statu quo for two or three months. 
Miss Mitty went to visit an aunt about thirty miles dis- 
tant, and the operations of the Sunday School were sus- 
pended. The winter, short and mild in that genial 
clime, came and melted into the blossoms of an early 
spring. The cheek of Timothy gave evident indications 
of‘the wasting influence of hidden passion. It assumed a 
kind of russet hue, while his thin nose looked still thinner, 
and wore, if possible, a bluer tint. His kind sister made 
him drink copiously of rue and wormwood tea, to give 
him a healthy appetite, urged him to ride on horseback 
before breakfast, and made a pillow of hops to call back 
the vagrant slumbers to his restless couch. But “ neither 
poppy nor mandragora could ever medicine him to the 
sweet sleep” he was wont to enjoy. Mrs. Butler was a 
woman of very little sentiment, and never dreamed that 
she had herself been the innocent cause of the malady she 
was taking such inelFectual means to cure. Concerned as 
she felt for him, she could not help telling him “it was 
nothing but the hypo, or the megrims, for old bachelors 
ilways were troubled with them.” 

It was a fine morning on the first of April, all smiles, 


THJC PREMATURE DECLARATION OF LOVE. 139 

no tears: they had all been kissed away by, the sun. Mrs. 
Butler was in her garden, a basket of flower-seeds in her 
hand, giving directions to a man, who was laying out the 
beds in the form of hearts and diamonds, and setting box 
in every corner. She was obliged to stop every now and 
then to scold her son Joe, who was jumping into the midst 
of the moist beds, overturning the flower-seeds, carrying 
off the gardener’s tools, and doing every thing in the 
world he ought not to do. At last seeing his uncle 
approaching, he climbed up a peach-tree, and sat em- 
bosomed in the leaves, as quiet as the maternal bird in its 
nest. 

“Brother Tim, you are the very man I want. Just 
run over to Mrs. Tilner’s and ask her for some slips of that 
scarlet geranium of hers. It is such a beautiful morning 
for gardening — you will see Miss Mitty, too, for she came 
back last night.” 

“ I should be glad to oblige you, sister,” answered 
Timothy, with deep solemnity, lifting at the same time his 
handkerchief to his eyes, “ but I am called to attend to 
matters of more importance ; something very unexpected 
indeed. I must start immediately on a long journey.” 

“ A long journey I why, the man is crazy. You were 
never ten miles from home in your life.” 

“ Read that, sister,” said he, putting a letter in her 
hand, “ you will see it is no joking matter.” 

Mrs. Butler opened her eyes as wide as a morning-glory, 
w^hile she perused the following letter : — 

, March 3d, . 

Dear Sir : 

As the administrator of your late uncle’s estate, I am 
authorized to address you. By his sudden and lamented 
death you are at once a loser and a gainer. You have 
lost a worthy and generous uncle, and gained a large and 
unincumbered fortune. Your presence here will be imme- 
diately Tequired, and I trust you will start as soon as pos • 
sible after the receipt of this. 

Yours, with much respect, &c. 

The tears dropped from Mrs. Butler’s eyes before she: 


140 the premature declaration op love. 

finished the epistle. She loved her uncle very much, and 
was grieved and shocked at his unexpected death. No 
feeling of regret entered her disinterested mind, that she 
was omitted in the will ; she rejoiced at her brother’s 
prosperity in the midst of her mourning. 

^‘Well, Timothy, since it has pleased Heaven to take 
away our dear uncle, I am glad with all my heart that he 
has seen fit to make you his heir. I am sure you will 
make a good use of it.” 

“ I will try to be a prudent steward,” was the meek 
reply “ But please, sister, to see that my best shirts and 
cravats are brought in from the wash, and sew that button 
on my buff waistcoat.” 

Mrs. Butler promised to have every thing in readiness, 
and leaving her beloved plants, accompanied her brother 
to the house. By one of those singular coincidences, 
which destiny loves to bring about, who should be seen 
walking through the gate at that moment, but Miss Sub- 
mit Schoolcraft, coming to pay the morning respects to 
her dear friend Mrs. Butler, after an absence of many 
weeks. 

“ I declare,” said Mrs. Butler, “if there isn’t Miss Mitty> 
I am so glad she is come.” 

“ Sister,” said Timothy, “if you think it would be pru* 
dent, I should — should like to speak a few words to Miss 
Mitty before I start — I have something — particular, hem 
— perhaps — you know what I mean.” 

“ Oh I yes indeed that’s right ; speak like a man. 
You’ve a right to hold up your head now.” 

The lady in question was now within speaking distance, 
and the ceremonies of meeting passed. The beating of 
Timothy’s heart sounded in his own ears like the tramp- 
ling of horses feet on frozen ground. The only obstacle 
to the union for which he had long secretly panted was 
now removed, and he found himself suddenly in the pre- 
sence of the very and only woman who had ever awakened 
a sentiment of love in his unpolluted bosom. Before he 
had recovered from the stunning effect of such unexpected 
circumstances, he was seated alone with Miss Mitty in the 
front parlor, for Mrs. Butler kindly recollected a thousand 
things to do, that required her presence elsewhere. She 


THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 141 

had taken her seat by an open window, in the shade of a 
lilac bush in full bloom ; a monthly rose, with a single 
flower, blushing on its stalk, stood on the window-frame. 
Timothy, who sat at the opposite side of the room, looked 
sideways toward the object of his attraction, and thought 
he had never seen her look so comely. Her ruffles were 
plaited so nicely, her hair was combed so smoothly, the 
folds of her neckerchief were so exact. Timothy sat with 
his feet on the rounds of the chair, and his hands in his 
waistcoat pocket ; he felt glued to the spot — his tongue 
felt glued to the roof of his mouth. 

At last Miss Mitty spoke ; a woman is always the first 
to break such an awkward silence. 

“ Have you enjoyed your health, Mr. Fuller, since I saw 
you last?” 

“ Ah ! Miss Mitty, I have not been quite well, but 1 
feel some better now.” 

He hitched his chair two steps nearer. 

“Have you been well, Miss Mitty, you look charm- 
ingly.” 

“ My health has been excellent, thanks to Provi- 
dence.” 

Every word that was uttered gave Timothy confidence 
to hitch a little nearer, till at last he got within the shade 
of the lilac tree. 

“ Miss Mitty, I have something very particular to say 
— if I may be so bold — would you be kind enough to read 
that letter ?” 

It was not without a gteat many coughs, and hems, and 
stammerings, he said all this. Having got this far he 
wiped the perspiration from his brow with his red silk 
handkerchief, fanned himself with its folds, looking steadily' 
upon the green baize, till she folded up carefully the im- 
portant document. She returned it, making a sensible 
remark upon the vanity of life, and the duty of resigna- 
tion ; and Timothy, who hoped the letter would bi'eak the 
ice, found he must make a desperate effort and break it 
himself. He looked round in a sort of despair, and his 
eye rested on that single rose, so sweet and fair. He re- 
membered the flowers he had formerly presented; and 
breaking it from the stem, with a spontaneous burst of 


112 the premature declaration of love. 

nature and feeling, exclaimed, “ Mi — Miss Mitty, dc you 
remember the first rose I gave you 

He would have given all the world to have read his 
doom ill her countenance, but it was perfectly opaque in 
its fresh composure. He thoi.ght she smiled as she gave 
a monosyllable affirmative, but: she held the rose to her 
mouth and he could not be quite certain. 

“ Sister thinks,” continued he, emboldened by his own 
exertions, “ I had better think of getting married : a pru- 
dent wife must be a great blessing.” 

“ So must a good husband be answered she, looking 
modestly down, and Timothy felt his hopes elevated almost 
to the summit of ecstasy. He drew his chair a little 
nearer, and she did not retreat. 

“ Sister says, a good wife makes a good husband ; if 
you will take me. Miss Mitty, I will promise to be the best 
husband in the world.” 

She did not make an immediate reply, but there was 
something so encouraging in her glance and deportment, 
something so ominous of a kind reply in the manner in 
which she cleared her throat of a sudden huskiness before 
beginning to speak, Timothy felt as if he were reaching 
the happiest moment of his existence. He stooped for- 
ward, and ventured to take the hand nearest him, which 
still held the proffered and accepted rose; a gentle 
pressure assured him that his presumption was par- 
doned and his hopes confirmed. He recollected having 
heard his sister tell how Mr. Butler kissed her hand when 
she consented to marry him, and perfect novice as he was 
in the art of courtship, he blessed his memory for assisting 
him in this most interesting moment of his life. He bent 
bis head lower and lower, his lip was just within reach of 
a hand which never before had received such devoted 
homage, when his body being too entirely on the edge of 
the chair to keep the centre of gravity, and being unac- 
customed to such a position, lost its equilibrium, and poor 
Timothy kissed the baize instead of Miss Mitty’s hand, 
with a suddenness and fervor that completely stunned 
him. 

At this awful moment, a loud shout was heard from 
behind the lilac bush, and the black curls of Jqe Butler 
were distinctly seen through the boughs. In every disaster 


THE PREMATURE DECLARATIOM 


143 


there is some alleviating circumstance. Miss Mitty had a 
pleasure never before experienced, of seeing a lover prone 
at her feet ; and however involuntary the prostration, it 
was flattering to her vanity. I suppose she must have a 
little vanity, for she was human. 

The morning waned away. The stage was to start at 
noon that was to bear him to the scene of his future 
wealth. Timothy was the happiest of human beings. The 
wilderness blossomed, fountains gushed forth in the desert 
of his life. Then his conscience reproached him for not 
mourning for his uncle, and being so very happy, and he 
tried to look sad, but failing in the effort, laughed aloud, 
I will not describe the leave he took of Miss Mitty, nor 
the congratulations of Mrs. Butler, on the consummation of 
her warmest wishes, but I would mention how Mr. Butler 
heard the tidings of Timothy’s windfall, but he was unfor- 
tunately absent in that eventful morning. The horn 
sounded clear and melodious, the stage rattled up to the 
door, the smooth black trunk was lashed on behind. Tim- 
othy took a tender leave of his sister, promised the children 
a thousand pretty things on his return ; then stepping 
into the stage, was about to seat himself comfortably 
on the back seat, when Joe Butler, jumping on the 
wheel, whispered loudly in his ear, “ Oh! you April 
fool!" 

Then Timothy did indeed remember that it was the first 
of April, and his bosom died within him to think he had 
been the dupe of a mischief-loving boy. All his bright 
reversionary prospects melted in air ; his visions of love 
dissolved in tears. He was incapable of harboring any 
bitter or revengeful feelings toward the young villain, who 
had served him such a trick, but the iron of mortification 
entered into his soul. 

He g>t “sister” to explain matters to Miss Mitty, who, 
strange and perverse as it may seem, bestowed that resent- 
ment on the unoffending and too credulous Timothy which 
was due only to the saucy Joe. Mrs. Butler was so sensi- 
ble of the injustice of this, that she gave up her matri- 
monial speculations, and even forgot herself so far as to 
call this pattern of propriety an “unreasonable old 
maid ” 

Good always comes out of evil : tame expired with 


144 — T’ prjMATURE declaration of love. 

the oil that fed it. The last time I heard from him he 
was quite hale and cheerful, going on in his single and 
upright course, a candidate, if ever man was, for that 
reward contained in the beautiful promise, “ the pure in 
heart shall see God.’’ 





AUNT PATTY’S SCRAP-BAG. 


CHAPTER I. 

The family of Mr. Worth sat in silence around the break- 
ftjt table. It was an unusual thing ; and one wno had been 
accustomed to the cheerfulness that generally prevailed in 
the domestic circle, would have wondered at the stillness, 
and even sadness, that reigned at a board, covered with ail 
the necessaries and many of the luxuries of life. It was, 
indeed, an inviting board. The cloth was white as the snow, 
which still lay in unmelted drifts^on the northern side of the 
dwelling; the butter was fresh from the churn, with an 
impression of roses, which no one had yet defaced by a 
knife ; the rolls were so light and white, they looked as if 
they had foamed up in the oven, and petrified there ; ho- 
ney that might have been extracted from the flowers of Ca- 
naan, from its sweetness and clearness, looked temptingly 
from a transparent dish ; and buckwheat cakes, palpitating 
and smoking from the griddle, every pore filled with melted 
butter, were passed round the table, ycH; none but the younger 
children extended their fork, moved by a spirit of appropria- 
tion. Yes ! there was on^ more, and that was Aunt Patty, 
who sat on the right side of Mrs. Worth, near the hissing 
coffee urn, and who never suffered sentiment to interfere 
with the duties of life — and of all its duties, she considered 
none of more importance and dignity than those connected 
with the science of gastronomy. While the family thus 
sit in silence, and most of them in idleness, we will avail 
ourselves of the opportunity of description, and present them 
inditddually before the reader. Let us pay honour where 
honour is due, and commence with Mrs. Worth, who sat at 
the head of the table, where she usually presided, the image 
of smiling hospitality ; but thi.s morning there was no smile 


]^46 AUNT P.^ tty’s scrap-bag. 

on her face, and every now and then a tear was seen 
thering in her eye, which she tried to force back, but the 
utmost her efforts could accomplish was to prevent the ga- 
thering drops from falling in a shower. She was a hand- 
sk)me woman, or rather a lovely one, and, in va' / vouth, 
must have been beautiful. In her bright and sunny mo- 
ments, her cheek still wore a spring-like bloom, but now it 
was pale, and that wanness and languor which proceed from 
a restless and sleepless night was diffused over her whose 
countenance. She had that soft gray eye, which we al- 
^vays associate with our idea of a religious character — that 
colour which lightens and darkens like the clouds of heaven, 
m the sunshine and shadow of the heart. Her hair, of paie 
chestnut-brown, was parted on her brow, and brought down 
somewhat low over temples which needed their shade, to 
relieve their lofty proportions. The plain divided hair was 
also relieved by the border of a thin lace cap, ornamented 
by a pale rose-coloured ribbon. It was the colour her hus- 
band best loved, and she seldom wore any other. On her 
right side, as if to serve as a foil to her unfaded matron 
charms, sat Aunt Patty, her own maternal aunt, whose 
countenance gave one an idea of extreme goodness, from its 
excessive homeliness. Her nose was very large, particu- 
larly at the end, and about the regions of the nostrils, and,, 
it is probable, the consciousness of possessing unusual ac- 
commodations for the business, induced her to adopt the 
profession of snuff-taking. But, whatever was the exciting 
motive, she was the very queen of snuff-lakers, and the 
number and variety of her fancy snuff-boxes were the ad- 
miration of all the children of the neighbourhood. She had 
a box deposited by her plate, with the picture of Bonaparte 
in full regimentals on the top of it, whose nose was almost 
obliterated by incessant rapping. A crutch rested a.g:ainst 
her chair, which showed she was lame ; and as her figure 
leaned painfully towards the right, it was evident that she 
needed support on that side. She had been a cripp, e from 
early childhood, and having been cut off from all the active 
enjoyments of life, had acquired an inordinate .ove of read- 
ing, though her taste was of rather a peculiar kind. 

But we will not ente* now into the minutiae of mind. We 
are treating of externa. s, and there is a large family to dis- 
pose of before we can be admitted into the ‘^.ralia, oi inner 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 147 

sanctuarjr. There is another peculiarity of Aunt Patty’s. 
She eats with her left hand alone — her ri^ht lies passive 
in her lap. Its sinews are contracted, and the skin looks 
dry and withered. When a child, she fell into the fire, when 
left to the charg-e of a faithless nurse, and the tender liga. 
ments were scorched, the soft muscles hardened, and tlie 
vigorous growth stunted. It maybe, that her irregularities 
of feature were caused by the same misfortune ; the blood 
having less power in one part of the system rioted too madly 
in another, and produced many little excrescences, such a« 
warts and moles, which gave a striking individuality to 
Aunt Patty’s appearance. 

Notwithstanding her total destitution of personal attrac- 
tions, Aunt Patty was an object of great tenderness and af- 
fection to her kindred and intimate acquaintances. Unlike 
many, who are visited by similar calamities, and who are 
made selfish, and hard, and suspicious, she had all the dis- 
interestedness and simplicity of a child. But it will nevei 
do to dwell so long on Aunt Patty, on her first introduction 
to the reader, though we acknowledge that she is an espe- 
cial favourite. 

There is a little chubby-faced, fat-armed, rosy-cheeked, 
curly-haired thing, seated up in a high chair, close to her 
side, who looks impatient to attract our notice. That is 
Estelle, the young star of the group, and the cloud that 
broods over every other face has cast no dimness on hers. 
It would be impossible for her to look sad. Her face is too 
round, her cheeks too rosy, and her eyes too blue and bright. 
Her upper lip is too short entirely to conceal her ivory 
teeth: so she cannot help smiling if she would — and her 
little nose, un pen retrousse, gives an air of inexpressible 
mischief to her countenance. She is Aunt Patty’s pet, who 
would think the sun and moon well appropriated were they 
plucked from the sky to gratify the wishes of Estelle. Her 
dish is piled up with a heap of buckwheat cakes, almost as 
high as her head, swimming in an ocean of honey as well 
as butter, which Aunt Patty has provided for her darling, 
taking advantage of the sad and abstracted mood of the mo- 
ther, who generally restricts the appetites of the childien 
within the bounds of propriety. But Aunt Patty thii.ks 
that Ttature is the best guide, and that children ought to eat 
as long as they can swallow : and there is no doubt tiiat the 


■»/48 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

iawning intellect pfEste.le was often impeded in its opera 
tions by the injudicious indulgence of her privileged relative. 

There is a great contrast between the fair, sunny-eyed 
Estelle, and the dark, gioomy-browed youth seated on her 
right. Who would dream that he is her own brother, the 
son of that gentle mother ? Yet it is even so. and the same 
blood that seems to bubble up in her cherub-cheeks, flows 
like molten lead in his veins. He has the lofty brow of hia 
mother, and the firm-set lips of his father, but his eyes are 
all his own — large, dark, and sullen, yet lustrous in their 
gloom ; they remind one of a lantern in a dark abbey, or a 
torch in a dark pine wood, the flash making the shades more 
deep by contrast. The expression of misanthropy, which is 
the prevailing character of his countenance, he has worn 
from early childhood, and it now settles like a thick fog on 
the bloom of his adolescence. He is the Esau of the family, 
who believes there is no blessing for him. He seldom sits 
down at the domestic board, and nothing but an occasion 
like the present would induce him to depart from his gloomy 
and retired habits. Homer has the right of primogeniture, 
but he imagines his younger brother has robbed him of his 
birthright, and bad he hated the world less, he might have 
become an alien from the paternal roof. The eyes of the 
father are now fixed upon him, with an expression of in- 
tense anxiety. Homer frowns under a consciousness of tne 
steadfast look. He has a horror of being gazed upon ; and 
meeting at the same time the tearful glance of his mother, 
he rises suddenly and leaves the table. 

Mr. Worth was a man of remarkable dignity of appear- 
ance and manner. His figure was tall and stately, sur- 
mounted by a Roman bust and Brutus-head. He was said 
to resemble the best pictures of Washington, that is, in the 
somewhat square outline of the face, and the large sockets 
of the eyes ; but the eyes themselves were larger and darker, 
and had more fire andj tenderness, and the hue of his com- 
plexion and hair were both exceedingly dark. His smile 
was singularly fine, contrasting, as it did, with the prevailing 
gravity of his countenance. Little Estelle said, “ when fa- 
.her smiled, it looked like the sun shining out from behind 
a cloud.” Aunt Patty treasured this up among the many 
smart sayings, that indicated her favourite’s precious ge- 
% If the children hailed their father’s smiles as the 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


153 

breaking sunbeams, they feared his frowns of anger more 
than the wrath of elements. He was seldom angry, and 
never without a just cause ; and he had such perfect mas- 
tery of his own passions, that even when unchained, he 
could make them the vassals of his will. His influence in 
his own family, in the neighbourhood, indeed, as far as he 
was known, was irresistible. It was the combined influence 
of a commanding intellect, uncompromising principles, en ’ 
larged philanthropy, and the kindliest sensibilities ; and it 
is no wonder that such an union should have strength. His 
name became him well. It was a compendium of his 
whole character. 

A pale young girl, of about twelve, sat on the right of her 
father, whose name was Emma ; she was the eldest daugh- 
ter of the household, and bore a striking resemblance to her 
father, though a constitutional delicacy of complexion gave 
a softness to features, which might have otherwise seemed 
too decided in their outline. She had a slender chest, 
drooping shoulders, a small, bright flush on her cheeks, and 
eyes too large in proportion to the rest of her face. But they 
were so brilliant, so spiritual, so unchildish in their expres- 
sion, that with her fragile frame, and delicate, flushed com- 
plexion, her appearance was uncommonly interesting. You 
could read her history in her countenance from the cradle 
to the present hour. A feeble infant, apparently destined 
for a grave not more than a span long, a child of many ten- 
der cares and trembling hopes, hopes becoming steadier, 
and stronger as time passed on, without realizing the fears 
which often overshadowed those trembling hopes. She was 
the young moralist of the family ; and sickness had given 
her such sanctity in the eyes of the younger children, that 
they looked upon her as more angel than mortal, as one who 
had wings on her shoulders, ready to unfurl in the golden 
light of heaven. 

Seated between Emma and Bessy, the younger sister, 
was Edmund, the Jacob whom the misanthropic Homer 
suspected and envied. “In truth, young Edmund was no 
vulgar boy.” There seemed an innate nobility about him, 
that spoke in his walk, in his bow, in the manner in which 
he put on his hat, ar moved a chair, which the stranger- 
guest always noticed and admired. Then there was such 
sunniness and vivacity in his countenance, such winning 
10 


’x48 

AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

frankness and glovn'ng warmth ; his face was like a bngh> 
Rpnng morning, all radiance and bloom. His mother said, 
that Edmund had n wer given her heart one moment’s pain 
from disobedience, tbstinacy, or passion; and Aunt Patty 
said, he came into the. world with the commandments writ- 
ten on his heart, and that there was no need of his learning 
them. It was not often that a shadow flitted over his soul- 
lighted brow ; but one rested there now, and it had deepen- 
ed since Homer’s abrupt departure from the table. Indeed, 
that circumstance had added to the evident depression of the 
, family group. 

Bessy, the younger sister of Emma, the foster-child of 
Hygea, looked like no one in the world but herself, and no 
one who saw her could wish her to look otherwise. She 
was very fair, and had that Grecian outline of face and fea- 
ture, so beautiful in profile. Her 03^08 were of a clear ce- 
rulean. such as you see in a summer morning, — and the}'' 
had a natural lifting towards heaven, as if conscious of their 
consanguinity 'vith the beautiful azure of the skies. Then 
her hair ! who ever savy such lovely ringlets ? They were 
of a flaxen colour — not that dry, dingy flaxen, such as is seen 
on the heads of children wdio roll about all da}^ in the hot 
sun, but a bright, golden texture, that sparkled and rippled 
in its own jo3’-ous freedom. Bessy was an ardent, imagina- 
tive child, and she loved to watch the clouds at sunset, and 
to tell her dreams in the morning. The other children 
called her Aunt Elinor, because A unt Elinor, in that famous 
book Sir Charles Grandison, was the dream-teller of the no- 
vel. Not that the}’’ had read that voluminous work them- 
selves, but the}' had heard it, revised and corrected, from 
.he lips of Aunt Patty, who was uneipmlled in her oral 
powers. It was the first morning for a long time that Bessy 
had not entertained the famil}^ with some vision more daz- 
zling and wonderful than all the creations of the Arabian 
Nights, the oracle of her imagination. But it is not proba- 
ble she had any dreams to tell. She looked as if she had 
scarcely slept, and a pink circle round her eyes betrayed 
the tears which had been resting there. 

But why, it may naturally be asked, this unusual silence 
and sadness, and traces of recent tears ? It may be told in 
a few words ; — The husband and father was about to depart 
on a long journev. He expected to be absent a long tim# 


AUNT PATTV’S SCRAP- BAG. 153 

Dn perplexirg business ; and, moreover, he was goist only 
the far souti , to be exposed to a dangerous climate, pecuv 
liarly dangerous to, a man of his vigorous constitution. He 
was going on horseback, for he could not bear the confine- 
ment of a stage, when he could ride in the open air on his 
good liorse Faithful, who had carried him safely over many 
a rough and weary road. His trunks had already been 
forwarded, and his v'alise lay ready in a chair to be strapped 
on the back of Faithful, who, if he could have been con* 
scions of the treasures it contained, would have exulted un- 
der the burden. Had there been room, the children would 
have loaded him with bushels of apples, and nuts, and cakes, 
to regale the traveller; — as it was, they mourned bitterly 
over the narrow limits prescribed to them, and wished va- 
lises were made of India rubber, so that they could be 
stretched as wide as one wished. Estelle was extremely 
desirous to pack up her gray and white kitten for her fa- 
ther’s amusement, but when he convinced her that it would 
die for want of air, her solicitude for her kitten conquered 
her filial anxiety. She persuaded him, however, to take a 
china kitten, which had been her pet before she had a pre- 
sent of the live one, as there was no danger of smothering 
it, and it w’ould occupy very little room. 

Ernrna, who was celebrated for her skill as a seamstress, 
had for some time been sedulously engaged in making up 
some fine linen shirts for her father, in which she would al- 
low no one to put one stitch but herself. Not satisfied with 
the multitudinous and superfluous stitches which custom 
requires should be used in the manufacture of such gar- 
ments, she was embroidering the gussets, and hemstitching 
the bosoms, in all the luxuriance of ornamental affection, 
when he convinced her that there was great danger of his 
being taken up as an ultra dandy, and she was obliged to 
content herself with greater simplicity of execution. 

Bessy had been knitting a pair of dark worsted gloves 
with an ivory hook, which, after some unexpected difficul- 
ties, were completed to the satisfaction of her father, if not to 
her own. The first glove was too small, but he said it was 
not of any consequence, for it would stretch ; the next was 
too large, but he was equally sure that it would snrink. 
This kind of reasoning reminded Bessy of the^ittveller, who 
wanned his fingers and cooled broth with the same 


\48 


AUNT patty’s SCRAP-BAO. 


But when she saw the gloves upon his hands, 
‘^^vithout presenting much apparent discrepancy, she was 
satisfied of the soundness of his arguments. They were 
a very acceptable gift, as the chill v/inds of March were 
blowing, and the traveller needed every comfort to shield 
him from their northern blasts. 

Aunt Patty had put an ample snuff-box in the comer of 
his valise, and told him he must take a pinch of snuff every 
night in memorial of her, and he must bring her the pret- 
tiest box in all Carolina, as a keepsake in return. Aunt 
Patty made another request, which he promised to remem- 
ber, and, as far as it was practicable, (3bey. One of her dar- 
ling hobbies was to collect pieces of calico, muslin, and silk, 
samples of the dresses of all her friends and acquaintances, 
and every once in a while she would open her scrap-bag, 
and review her treasures, telling the names of the indivi- 
duals who wore such and such frocks, and relating many 
choice anecdotes, connected with the circumstances under 
which the specimens were obtained. She gave positive 
injunctions to Mr. Worth, to preserve relics of the dresses 
of all the ladies with whom he became acquainted, to add to 
her already vast collection. She anticipated a rich feast in 
comparing the colour, texture, and figure of the materials 
which compose a southern lady’s wardrobe, imagining it 
must be entirely different from her northern sisters. This 
was such an innocent recreation to Aunt Patty, and her 
sources of enjoyment were so limited, and it was such a de- 
light to the children, to gather round her knees, and hear the 
history of the parti-coloured shreds, which lay like a broken 
rainbow in her lap, that Mr. Worth himself took no small 
•^pleasure in thinking he should have an opportunity of add- 
ing to her already immense hoard. She gave him a large 
reception bag, in which to deposit the precious morceaus, 
vith many directions to learn every thing possible connected 
with the wearers of the garments, that the increase ^ her 
historical lore might be in proportion to the accession of her 
Avealth. “Well,” said she, breaking the silence, and trying 
lo coax Estelle with a fresh roll, who leaned back in her 
high chair in a state of perfect repletion, “ there is no use 
n looking so sad. The world is made up of partings 
and meetings ; and if people never parted they would never 
know the «o«ufort of meeting again. It is well to go away 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


153 

sometimes, just to know how good home is. We musioniy 
trust in Providence, and all will go right wherever we lUiiy 
be.” 

“Yes, Aunt Patty,” replied Mr. Worth, with a slight 
huskiness of voice, “you Lave uttered volumes in that little 
phrase. The belief in a guardian Providence, that not only 
watches over me, but mine, will be my best consolation 
during the lonely hours of absence. My wife, my chil- 
dren, you must remember that I shall watch the coming of 
the mail as the approach of a good ange., and you must not 
let it come without tokens of love for me.” 

“ There is no need of reminding me as a duty, of what 
will be my chief happiness,” replied Mrs. Worth, half re- 
proachfully. “ I only fear that I shall occupy too much of 
your time. You know, in my own family, they called me 
the scribbler, and I have not forfeited the title.” 

“ You are blest with the pen of a ready writer,” said the 
husband, “ and can speak from the heart to the heart most 
'eloquently. There are many who are charming companions 
■when present, who are cold and careless in absence. Letter- 
writing is an accomplishment of priceless value — one in 
which the best qualities of the head and heart are called into 
exercise. I wish my children to cultivate it in a high de- 
gree. They can have no better opportunity than addressing 
an absent and loving father. You fear my criticism? Weil 
I acknowledge I am rather an unmerciful critic ; bnt it is 
only by the exposure of your errors you will imprf^ve. 1 
place my standard of excellence very high, and you must 
all strive to attain it. Yet be not discouraged — simnlicity. 
truth and vivacity, are the best qualities in a correspondent, 
and Jjttle Estelle herself can boast of these, and would write 
an admirable letter, if her chirography were equal to her 
intelligence.” 

“ Chirography !” repeated Aunt Patty — “ you don’t ex- 
pect the child to understand such a word as that. I always 
think it best to use short words in speaking to children.” 

“ You can explain it to her. Aunt Patty,” said Edmund, 
rather archly, for he well knew, that though Aunt Patty 
was a devourer of books, she saw no necessity of under- 
standing the meaning of every word she read herself, and 
when she saw a long vurd she was apt to skip it. “ But 
father,” co»»tinued he “mother will tell you all the good 


AU^T J A tty’s scrap-bag. 


154 

and great things in her bng letters, and there will oc none 
but little, insignificant ‘.rifles for us to relate.” 

“ You are mistaken, my boy, if you think great things 
are necessary to give interest to an epistle from home. The 
slightest incident, the description of the daily mir utite of 
life, a walk in the woods, a visit to or from a friend, a sketch 
of the book you are reading — the drawing you are making 
— possess a charm, which young letter- writers cannot ima 
gine, or they would never strain after such unnatural sub- 
jects and artificial style as they sometimes do. Even a 
dream, my Bessy, such as has often enlivened our family 
breakfast table, would be quite captivating at times. You 
must all write as if you were my only correspondent, and 
be not afraid of repeating the same thing twice, for you will 
all relate it in a different manner, and that will prevent it 
from being tedious. 1 expect a great deal from my young 
moralist here, who can turn even the frolics of Estelle’s 
kitten imo sources of instruction.” 

Emma blushed, and the children began to reflect a great 
deal on the importance of letter-writing, and of the materials 
they intended to collect to fill their future pages. They felt 
elevated in their own estimation, since they found their fa- 
ther looked to them for intellectual amusement, and they 
resolved that no link should be wanting in the chain of 
events wrought during his absence, but that it should receive 
brightness and beauty from their touch. They became, in 
a measure, reconciled to his departure, and a gleam of sun- 
shine broke through the cloud which had lowered over the 
household shrine. The long, gloomy silence being once 
broken, conversation flowed more easily and cheerfully, and 
they all, by tacit understanding, lingered as long as possible 
round the table, knowing their rising would be the signal 
for his departure. 

“There is one caution. Aunt Patty,” said Mr. Worth, 
“ which I must mention, and you must not be displeased.” 
Here one of his rare smiles gleamed on his countenance, 
and Aunt Patty smiled from sympathy, though she knew 
not its meaning. “Now,” added he, “you want your dar- 
iing Estelle ♦ ) be a beauty, a wit, and a genius, but if you 
pamper her appetite as you now do, she will be nothing but a 
gross little animal, with eyes standing out with fatness, and 
Vad as heavy as an apple-dumpling. Show your lt>ve tc 


AtNT PATTY^S SCRAP-BAG. 


her in any other way ; give her red-headed pins, buttonwood 
balls, or any of your peculiar gifts, but don’t drown her in 
butter or honey, or stuff her with rolls and hot cakes.” 

“ If its the fashion to starve children now,” replied Aunt 
Patty, “ to make them bright, it wasn’t when I was young. 
I was always allowed to eat what I wanted, and it never hurt 
my intellect.” 

“ But all minds may not possess such a preservative 
principle as yours. Aunt Patty. At any rate, attend to my 
wishes in this respect, and I will put every lady I see un- 
der contribution for your calico museum. Edmund, find 
your brother ; I must see him again before I bid you fare- 
well. That unhappy boy,” added he, in a low voice to his 
wife, as they together left the apartment, “ I fear he will 
hang heavy on your heart during my absence.” 

“ Deal gently with him, my husband,” said the mother ; 
“a word, a mere breath wounds his sensitive and too exact- 
ing spirit. Do not upbraid him for his strange and abrupt 
manners — a word of reproof now would rankle in his bosom 
for months. We must be very, very tender with him, if 
we would not alienate him entirely from our affections.” 

“ Ah ! my beloved Emma,” replied he, “ I fear the very 
excess of your tenderness has a pernicious influence on his 
character. It fosters that morbid, selfish sensibility which 
preys darkly on itself, and converts into wormwood and gall 
the very life-blood of his heart. I perceive he is in one of 
his darkest moods, and I cannot leave him, without making 
a more strenuous effort than I have ever done before, to 
rouse him from the r/joral sepulchre in which he is entomb- 
ing himself. Do not fear, I will address him with all the 
tenderness of a mother, mingled with the authority of a fa- 
ther ; and, if I cannot move his sullen temper, I will take 
him with me, rather than the peace of my household should 
be disturbed by his strange paroxysms of passion.” 

“Oh! never,” exclaimed Mrs. Worth, “he would be 
wretched among strangers ; ana so great would be his re- 
luctance, that you would be compelled to use coercion to 
force obedience to your will. Though you fear the effects 
of too much tenderness, I have no words to express my 
dread of the consequences of such a course. If cne human 
being has more influence over him than another, I believe it 
is myself, and I know he will not willingly r"* ’ the sor- 
row caused by this longj-^paration.” 


156 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag 

Mrs. Worth hung on her husband’s arm as she spoke, 
and looked heseecftngly in his eyes. She pleaded the 
cause of her first-born with all a mother’s eloquence. Much 
as her own heart condemned him, she could not bear that 
others should speak with severity of his faults. She seemed 
conscious, that instead of ivinning, he repelled from him 
he affections and sympathies of his kind, and she wanted 
0 make up to him, in the prodigality of a mother’s love, for 
the forfeited esteem of the world. So unceasing, so shield- 
ing, was her watchful observance of him, that many misin- 
terpreted her feelings, and believed him her favourite child, 
more especially as she often repressed the gushings of her 
maternal heart towards Edmund, her beautiful and beloved, 
lest the demon of jealousy, that lay like a sleeping lion in 
the breast of Homer, should leap from its lair. 

Unable to control, or conceal her agitation, Mrs. Worth 
left the apartment, from an opposite door, as Homer entered 
and stood before his father, with folded arms and sullen 
brow. 

Mr. Worth remained silent a few moments, with his left 
hand in his breast, and his right supported by the back of a 
chair. It was his usual attitude ; and as it presented his 
person in its full height, it enhanced its commanding dig- 
nity. The struggle to master his emotions gave a sternness 
to his countenance, of Avhich he was not aware, and Homer 
felt he was arraigned before a judge, rather than a father, 
and he resolved to meet him in the spirit of a man. 

“My son,” said Mr. Worth, “I wished to speak with 
you a few moments, apart from the rest of the family, and 
I would speak with the solemnity of one, who may never 
have an opportunity of addressing you again. On the eve 
of parting from objects inexpressibly dear, anxieties, heavy 
before, press upon me with the weight of iron. I go, in the 
hope of establishing my claims to an inheritance which will 
place my children in affluence, and give them an influence 
in society which merit and taVent alone could not impart. 
You are my first-born son, anti, though a mere boy in years, 
are fast acquiring the stature of a man. Your mind has 
grown beyond your years, and were its energies well di- 
rected, it might become, at some future day, a mighty engine, 
to work out your country’s good. But the same power, 
compressed in its limits, may be terrible. Like the tiger 


AUNT patty’s SCRAP-BAl.. 157 

that diafes in impotent strength against the bars of its cage, 
it lashes itself to fury, and is wasted itself at last in medec- 
tual efforts. You like strong expressions, and I use them. 
You do not like to be treated as a chikh and I place in you 
the confidence of a man. For your sake, more than for my 
other children, do I involve myself in the intricacies of law, 
and sacrifice the comforts of home. You, as my eldest born, 
will be my representative, and society will look to you, to 
keep up the honour of a name, known and respected througii 
many generations. The higher yoiTr fortunes, the greatei 
vour responsibilities. My son, I wish you to feel them as 
you ought.” 

“ No, father,” replied Homer gloomily ; “ it is not for me 
to sustain your name and fame. You have another son, 
younger, it is true, but a great deal more gifted and more 
beloved than I am. Let Edmund have all the money, since 
he has stolen every thing else.” 

“ And who told you, unhappy boy, that Edmund had sup- 
planted you in our affections ? What proofs of love has he 
received which have not been lavished on you ? Oh ! Ho- 
mer, my heart bleeds for your perverseness. And there is 
another heart, still more tender and fond than mine, that 
throbs wvith unutterable anxiety on your account. You 
were the first that opened the overflowing fountain of pa- 
rental love in our bosoms, that fountain which no ingratitude 
can chill, no exactions can drain. We love Edmund no 
better than yourself. There is an evil spirit within you, 
which whispers bad lessons to your secret soul. Beware, 
Horner ; it is the same spirit that instigated Cain to errvy, 
hate, then murder his unoffending brother, and bathed the 
green turf of Eden in kindred blood. The same spirit which 
urged the jealous brothers of Joseph to all their dark and 
cruel deeds. Beware, lest it wind you, body and soul, in 
its serpent folds.” 

Horner turned very pale, and his under-lip quivered with 
emotion. He averted his head, but not before his father saw 
large, scalding tears, plashing like rain-drops on his cheek. 
Mr. Worth could man himself against his sullen, defying 
mood, but this unexpected burst of sensibility melted him 
at once. Taking his hard, and drawing him closely to him, 
he attempted to speak, but the effort was ineffectual. Ho 
tner’s long pent-up feelings, having once broke loose, were 


AUNT patty’s SCRAP-BACt. 


i58 

ungovernable. He leaned his hea-1 on h’.s tather’s shoulder, 
and, in the strong language of Scrii'ture, “lifted up h.s- 
voice and wept aloud.*’ “ Oh, my son ! exclaimed his fa- 
ther, when he once more obtairied the mastery of his voice, 
*• never, sinc-e the hour when I first receiv(Hl you a new-born 
t»abe in my arms, has rny heart yearned over you as it does at 
ihis moment. Promise me, then, in the strength of awak- 
ened confidence and affection, that you will make, during 
my absence, the happiness of your mother your first object 
— that of your brother and sisters your next. Promise, with 
God’s help, that if 1 should return no more, and this hou.^e 
should become the home of the widow an;! the fa;herl-f‘ss, 
that you will be their stay and pillar, their shield. and con- 
solation.” 

Homer grasped his father’s hands, and, uplifting his eyes, 
repeated the promise he required. Good angels were ho- 
vering near, and the evil spirit fled from the music of their 
rustling wings. The father and son went out togethei 
nand in hand ; and when the mother met them, she knew 
that all was well between them, and she was sustained m the 
"rying moment of separation. 

The thousand' adieus were spoken, the farewell embraces 
given, and the traveller, mounted on the hack of. Faithful, 
who had also received many an affectionate caress, passed 
from the loved shadow of the homestead. The wife retired 
to her chamber, that she might veil her grief in secrecy, — 
the children stood at the door, and followed with wistful 
uaze the stately figure of their father, till the last glimpse of 
his dark-blue riding-dress disappeared beneath the arch of 
two meeting elms. The voice of Aunt Patty called them 
back into the breakfast room. 

“ You must never look after a person as long as you can 
see them,” said she, with mournful emphasis ; “ it is a sure 
sign that you will never see them again.” 

“ Oh ! don’t say so. Aunt Patty,” exclaimed Bessy, with 
a fresh burst of tears, “ we have all bf^en looking after him 
as long as we could see his shadow on the snow.” 

A reverential belief in signs and omens was another of 
.4.unt Patty’s individualities ; and in these Bessy had more 
faith than the other c lildreti, for Aunt Patty was the inter- 
preter of her dreajns. and invested them with a prophetic 
dignity, at least in tier own eyes. 


AUNT patty’s scrap- BA<J. 


159 


CHAPTER 11. 

lu was a rainy day, a real, old-fashioned, orthodox rainy 
Aay. It rained the first thing- in the morning, it rained 
harder and harder at midday. The afternoon was drawing 
to a close, and still the rain came down in steady and per- 
severing drops, every drop falling in a decided and obsti- 
nate way, as if conscious, though it might be ever so unwel- 
come, no one had a right to oppose its coming. A rainv 
day in mid-summer is a glorious thing. The grass looks 
up so green and grateful under the life-giving moisture ; the 
flowers sen,d forth such a delicious aroma ; the tall forest- 
trees bend down their branches so gracefully in salutation 
to the messengers of heaven. There are beauty, grace, and 
glory in a mid-summer rain, and the spirit of man becomes 
gay and buoyant under its influence. But a March rain in 
New England, when the vane of the weather-cock points 
inveterately to the north-east, when the brightness, and pu- 
rity, and pOHitiveness of winter is gone, and not one promise 
of springbreaks cheeringly on the eye, is a dismal concern. 

Little Estelle stood looking out at the window, with her 
nose pressed against a pane of glass, wishing it would clear 
up, it was so pretty to see the sun break out just as he was 
setting. The prospect abroad was not very inviting. It 
was a" patch of mud and a patch of snow, the dirtiest mix- 
ture in nature’s olio. A little boy went slumping by, sink- 
ing at every step almost to his knees ; then a carriage slowly 
and majestically came plashing along, its wheels buried in 
mud. the horses labouring and straining, and every now and 
then shaking the slime indignantly from their fetlocks, and 
probably thinking none but amphibious animals should be 
abroad in such weather. 

Oh ! it is such an ugly, ugly day !” said Estelle, “ I do 
wish it \vere over.” 

“ You should not find fault with the weather,” replied 
Emma ; “ mother says it is wicked, for God sends us what 
weather seemeth good to him. For my part, I have had a 
very happy day reading and sewing.” 


160 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

“ And 1 too,” said Bessy, “ but I begin to be tiT3d no\r 
and I wish I could see some of those beautiful crimson 
clouds, tinged with gold, that wait upon sunset.” 

“ Bessy has such a romantic mode of expression,” cried 
Edmund, laughing and laying down his book ; “ I think she 
will make a poet one of these days. Even now, [ see upon 
her lips ‘a prophetess’s fire.’ ” 

Bessy’s blue eyes peeped at her brother through her 
golden curls, and something in them seemed to say, “ that 
is not such a ridiculous prophecy as you imagine.” 

This is a dreadful day for a traveller,” said Mrs. Worth, 
with a sigh, and the children all thought of their father, ex- 
posed to the inclemency of the atmosphere, and they echoed 
their mother’s sigh. They all looked very sad, till the en- 
trance of another member of the family turned their thoughts 
into a new channel. This was no other than Estelle’s kit- 
ten, which had been perambulating in the mire and rain, 
till she looked the most forlorn object in the world. Her 
sides were hollow and dripping, and her tail clung to her 
back in a most abject manner. There was a simultaneous 
exclamation at her dishevelled appearance, but Miss Kitty 
walked on as demurely as if nothing particular had hap- 
pened to her, and jumping on her little mistress’s shoulder, 
curled her wet tail round her ears, and began to mew and 
purr, opening and shutting her green eyes between every 
purr. Much as Estelle loved her favourite, she was not at 
all pleased at her present proximity, and called out ener- 
getically for deliverance. All laughed long and heartily 
at the muddy streaks on her white neck, and the muddy 
tracks on her white apron, and she looked as if she had not 
made up her mind, whether to laugh or cry, when a fresh 
burst of laughter produced a complete reaction, and a 
sudden shower of tears fell precipitately on Aunt Patty’s 
lap. 

“Take care, Estelle,” said Edmund, “ Aunt Patty has 
got on her thunder and lightning calico. She does not like 
to have it rained on.” 

“ Aunt Patty had a favourite frock, the ground-work of 
which was a deep brown, with zig-zag streaks of scarlet, 
darting over it. Estelle called it thunder and lightning, and 
certainly it was a very appropriate similitude for a child. It 
always was designated by that name, and Edmund declared 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

that, whetiever Aunt Patty wore that dress, it was sure to 
bring a storm. She was now solicited by many voices to 
bring out one of her scrap-bags for their amusement. And 
she, who never wearied of recalling the bright images of 
her youthful fancy, or the impressions of later years, pro- 
duced a gigantic satchel, and undrawing the strings, Estelle’s 
little hand was plunged in, and grasping a piece by chance, 
smiles played like sunbeams on her tears, when she found 
It was a relic of old Parson Broomfield’s banian. It consisted 
of broad shaded stripes, of an iron-gray colour, a very sober 
and ministerial-looking calico. “ Ah !” said Aunt Patty — 
the chords of memory wakened to music at the sight. “ I 
remember the time when I first saw Parson Broomfield wear 
that banian. I was a little girl then, and my mother used 
to send me on errands here and there, in a little carriage, 
made purposely for me on account of my lameness. A boy 
used to draw me, in the same way that they do infants, and 
everybody stopped and said something to the poor lame 
girl. I was going by the parsonage, one warm summer 
morning, and the parson was sitting reading under a large 
elm tree, that grew directly in front of his door. He had a 
bench put all round the trunk, so that weary travellers copld 
stop and rest under its shade. He was a blessed man, Par- 
son Broomfield — of such great piety, that some thought if 
they could touch the hem of his garment they would have a 
passport to heaven. I always think of him when I read that 
beautiful verse in Job : ‘ The young men saw him and 

trembled, the aged arose and stood up.’ Well, there he sat, 
that warm summer morning, in his new striped banian, 
turned back from his neck, and turned carelessly over one 
knee, to keep it from sweeping on the grass. He had on 
black satin lasting pantaloons, and a black velvet waistcoat, 
that made his shirt collar look as white as snow. He lifted 
his eyes, when he heard the wheels of my carriage rolling 
along, and made a sort of motion for me to stop. ‘ Good 
morning, little Patty,’ said he, ‘ I hope you are very well 
this beautiful morning.’ We always thought it an honour 
to get a word from his lips, and 1 felt as if I could walk with- 
out a crutch the whole day. He was very kind to little 
children, though he iookedso grand and holy in the pulpit, 
you would think he was an angel of light, just come down 
thsre from the skies.” 


AUNl patty’s scrap-bag. 


162 

“ Did he preach in that calico frock ?” asked Emrta, anx- 
ious for the dignity of the ministerial office. 

“Oh! no, child — all in solemn biack, except his white 
linen bands. He always looked like a saint on Sunday, 
walking in the church so slow and stately, yet bowing on 
the right and left, to the old, white-headed men, that waited 
for him as for the consolation of Israel. Oh ! he was a bless- 
ed man, and he is in glory now. Here,” added she, taking 
a piece of spotless linen from a white folded paper, is a rem- 
nant of the good man's shroud. I saw him when he was 
laid out, with his hands folded on his breast, and his Bible 
resting above them.” 

“Don’t they have any Bibles in heaven ?” askeri little Es- 
telle, shrinking from contact with the funer’a! sample. 

“No, child ; they wdll read th? re without books, and see 
without eyes, and know every thing without learning. But 
they put his Bible on his heart, because he loved it so in 
life, and it seemed to be company for him in the dark coffin 
and lonely grave.” 

The children looked serious, and Emma’s wistful eyes, 
lifted towards heaven, seemed to long for that region of glo 
rious intuition, whither the beloved pastor of Aunt Patty’s 
youth was gone. Then the youngest begged her to teh 
them something more lively, as talking about death, and the 
coffin, and grave, made them melancholy such a rainy day 

“ Here,” said Bessy, “ is a beautiful pink and white mus 
lin. The figure is a half open rosebud, with a delicate 
cluster of leaves. Who had adress like this. Aunt Patty ?” 

“That was the dress your mother wore the first time she 
saw your father,” answered the chronicler, with a significant 
smile. Bessy clasped her hands tvith delight, and they ail 
gathered close, to gaze upon an object associated with such 
an interesting era. 

“Didn’t she look sweet?” said Bessy, looking admiringly 
at her handsome and now' blushing mother. 

“Yes ! her cheeks were the colour of her dress, and that day 
she had a wreath of roses in her hair: for Emma’s father loved 
flowers, and made her ornament herself with them to please 
his eye. It was about sunset. It had been very sultry, and 
the roads were so dusty w'e could scarcely see after a horse 
or carriage passed by. Emma w'as in the front yard water- 
ing some plants, when a gentleman on horseback rode 


AUNT patty’s scrap- bag. 163 

flowly along, as if he tried to make as little dust as possible. 
He rode by the house at first, then turning back, he came 
right up to the gate, and, lifting up his hat, bowed down to 
the saddle. He was a tali, dark-complexioned young man, 
who sat nobly on his horse, just as if he belonged to it. 
Emma, your mother that is, set down her watering pot, and 
made a sort of courtesy, a little frightened at a stranger coming 
so close to her, before she knew any thing about it. ‘ May 
I trouble you for a glass of water V said he, with anoiher 
bow. ‘ I have travelled long, and am oppressed with thirst.’ 
Emma courtesicd again, and blushed too, I dare say, and 
away she went for a glass of water, which she brought him 
with her own hands. Your grandfather had come to the 
door by this time, and he said he never saw a man so long 
drinking a glass of water in his life. As I told you before, 
it had been a terribly sultry day, and there were large 
thunder pillars leaning down black in the west — a sure sign 
there was going to be a heavy shower. Your grandfather 
came out, and being an hospitable man, he asked the stranger 
to stop and rest till the rain that was coming was over. He 
didn’t wait to be asked twice, but jumped from his horse and 
walked in, making a bow at the door, and waiting for your 
mother to walk in first. Well, sure enough, it did rain in 
a short time, and thunder, and lightning, and blow, as if the 
house would come down ; and. the strange gentleman sat 
down close by Emma, and tried to keep her from being 
frightened, for she looked as pale as death ; and when the 
lightning flashed bright, she covered up her face with her 
hands.. It kept on thundering and raining till bed-time^ 
when your grandfather offered him a bed, and told him he 
must stay till morning. Everybody was taken with him, 
for he talked like a book, and looked as if he knew more 
than all the book^^in the world. He told his name, and all 
about himself — that he was a young lawyer just commencing 
business in a town near by, (the very town we are now 
living in ;) that he had been on a journey, and was on his 
way home, which he had expected to reach that night. He 
seemed to hate to go away so the next morning, that your 
grandfather asked him to come and see him again — and he 
took him at his word, and came back the very next week. 
This time he didn’t hide from anybody what he came for,, 
for he courted your mother in good earnest, and never leff 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


164 

her, or gave her any peace, till she had promised to be his 
wife, which I believe she was very willing to be, from the 
first night she saw him.” 

“ Nay, Aunt Patty,” said Mrs. W orth, “ I must correct jmii 
m some of your items ; your imagination is a little too vivid.” 

Edmund went behind his mother’s chair, and putting his 
hands playfully over her ears, begged Aunt Patty to go on, 
and give her imagination full scope. 

“ And show us the wedding-dress, and tell us all about it,” 
said Bessy. “ It is pleasanter to hear of mother’s wedding, 
than Parson Broomfield’s funeral.” 

“ But that’s the way, darling — a funeral and a wedding, 
a birth and a death, all mixed up, the world over. We must 
take things as they come, and be thankful for all. Do you 
see this white sprigged satin, and this bit of white lace ? 
The wedding-dress was made of the satin, and trimmed 
round the neck and sleeves' with the lace, and the money it 
cost would have clothed a poor family for a long time. But 
your grandfather said he had but one daughter, and she 
should be well fitted out, if it cost him ah he had in the 
world. And, moreover, he had a son-in-law, whom he 
would not exchange for any other man in the universe. 
When Emma, your mother that is, was dressed in her brida* 
finery, with white blossoms in her hair, which hung in 
ringlets down her rosy cheeks, you might search the coun- 
try round for a prettier and fairer bride — and your father 
looked like a prince. Parson Broomfield said they were the 
handsomest couple he ever married — and, bless his soul, 
they were the last. He was taken sick a week after the 
wedding, and never lifted his head afterwards. It is a 
blessed thing Emma was married when she was, for I 
wouldn’t want to be married by any other minister in the 
world than Parson Broomfield.” 

“Where’s your husband, Aunt J^attyT” said Estelle, 
suddenly. 

Edmund and Bessy laughed outrgni <bm.ma only 
smiled— she feared Aunt Patty'*: feeimgs imgm bp voonded. 

“I never had any, child,’' repnexi she, after takuig a 
large pinch of snuff. 

“ What’s the reason ?” \>e>e‘rei*ed Estelle. 

“ Hush — Estelle,” said w iootner, “little girls mus' not 
fjsk so many questions,” 


AXTNT patty’s SCRAP-BAG. 165 

“I’ll tell you the reason.” cried Aunt Patty, “for I’m 
never ashamed to speak the truth. No one ever thought ol 
marrying nn^e, for I was a lame, helpless, and homely girl, 
without a cent of money to make folks think one pretty 
whether I was or not. I never dreamed of having sweet- 
hearts, but was thankful for friends, who were willing to 
hear with my infirmities, and provide for my comfort. I 
don’t care if they do call me an old maid. I’m satisfied with 
the place Providence has assigned me, knowing it’s a thou- 
sand times better than I deserve. The tree that stands alone 
6y the wayside offers shelter and shade to the weary travel- 
ler. It was not created in vain, though no blossom nor fruit 
may hang upon its boughs. It gets its portion of the sun- 
shine and dew, and the little birds come and nestle in its 
branches.” 

“ That is such a beautiful image of Aunt Patty’s,” whis- 
pered Bessy ; “ I know whom she means by the tree and the 
little birds. But tell me, mother,” continued she, passing 
her arm fondly round her neck, and looking up smilingly m 
her face, “ how can anybody love anybody as well as their 
own father and mother? How can they be willing to go 
away from home, where they have lived all their lives, to 
a strange place, with a stranger, too, whom they have never 
seen but a little while before ? I’m sure I wouldn’t go away 
from you, and father, and home, if they piled up gold enough 
to reach the skies to tempt me.” 

Mrs. Worth passed her arm round the waist of her beau- 
tiful child, and asked herself whether the time would ever 
arrive, when she would feel willing to transfer such a trea- 
sure to the bosom of another. Her heart imperatively an- 
swered, No ! and she wondered at the power which had 
drawn her, as if by enchantment, from the home of her 
youth. She found it difficult to exjfiain to the simplicity of 
childhood the influence of that master passion, before which 
the ties of nature yield like flax in the flame ; but taking 
advantage of Bessy’s love of metaphor, she brought the truth 
to her mind, through the medium of her imagination. 

“ You were pleased with Aunt Patty’s simile of the tree 
and little birds,” said she. “ Have you never noticed, Bessy, 
that when the birds are very young, and the feathers thin, 
and the wings weak, they nestle close to the parent bird, 
without thinking of flying into the blue air, and seeking the 
11 


166 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


world beyond. But, by and 1 y, their wings grow strong, 
and covered with beautiful shi iing feathers. They long to 
try their strength, and they fly away to build nests of their 
own. And if they meet some sweet warbler in the way, 
they are very apt to go in company, and sing and work 
together.” 

“ Oh, yes !” exclaimed Bessy, “ I remember that beau- 
tiful ballad about the blackbird, who chose his mate, and 
was killed by a gijnner in the vale. Do you recollect that 
sweet verse, after the bridegroom saw the danger ? 

“ Alarm’d, the lover cried, ‘ My dear, 

Haste, haste away, from danger fly — 

Here, gunner, turn thy vengeance here. 

Oh ! spare my love, oh let me die.’ 

At him the huntsman took his aim — 

The aim he took was, ah ! too true.” — 

Bessy’s voice choked. The sorrows of the widowed bird 
opened the sluices of her sympathy, and she could not go on. 

“ Well,” said Edmund, kindly wishing to divert her at- 
tention, and not disposed to laugh at her sensibility, “ if 
we are all birds, let us see what kind of ones we are. Ho- 
mer is the eagle, because he’s ambitious, and wants to be a 
great man. Yes, he shall be the ‘ bird of Jove, with thun- 
der in his train.’ You know that charming poem of Mont- 
gomery’s, where he compares Burns to all the birds of the 
air. Emma is ‘ in tenderness the dove’ — and Bessy, 

‘ Oh ! more than all beside, is she 
The nightingale in love.’ 

Little Estelle is the humming-bird, 

‘ From flower to flower. 

Exhaling sweet perfume.’ 

“ Don’t you think, mother, we make a charming aviary 
for you ?” 

“But you’ve left out yourself, brother,” .said Emma, 

‘ the best of the whole, — what will you be ?” 

“ Oh ! he shall be the bird of paradise,” intermpted. 
Bessy; “the most beautiful of all; and I think Homer 
ought to be the owl, — he’s so moping and fond of being 
alone. Then father can be th# eagle. But what will 
mother be 

“Nevsr mind me, children,” observed the mother,-- 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


167 


« but you must ncx give such an emblem to Homer, — he 
would not like it, w ire he to hear it ; and even in jest you 
must always beware of w^ounding the feelings of each 
other. He stays alone in his own room that he may study 
without interruption; for you know he enters college in 
the autumn. He is ambitious, as Edmund says, and who 
ever becomes a great man, must first be a studious youth.” 

Though the rain continued unabated, the evening passed 
off cheerily round a glowing fire. They forgot the dismal 
scenery abroad, in the contemplation of their in-door com- 
forts. It is not to be supposed that Aunt Patty had 
exhausted the store-house of memory, because we have 
interrupted the thread of her discourse. Scherezade her- 
self could not excel her in the number and variety of her 
domestic histories ; and after supper was over, and the other 
children seated round the table at their different occupations 
of reading and sewing, she sat in a corner with Estelle at 
her knees, entertaining her with her scrap erudition. 

Ought any thing to be regardea as insignificant or 
ridiculous, that draws the mind from the narrow limits of 
self, opens the avenues of human sympathy, and adds to 
the sum of human happiness ? Is not Aunt Patty, the 
lonely, crippled, and infirm, thus distilling the honey of life 
from its waste flowers and weeds, an object worthy of admi- 
mtion and respect ? 


CHAPTER III. 

The children were faithful to th^ duties their father en- 
joined upon them in his parting words, and the good angel 
nf the mail was seldom allowed to depart without bearing 
tokens of love to the wayfaring man. They had frequent 
tidings of him, as he pursued his journey safely and pros- 
perously. in spite of wind or weather. Whenever it was 
announced that a letter from Father had arrived, there was 
a full concert of joyotis sounds, and an eager rushing to the 
mother’s side, while she read the precious communication. 
Aunt Patty always p it on her spectacles and took a pinch 


168 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


of snuff, to hear it the better, and a beam of satisfaction 
even lignted up the misanthropic brow of Homer, for he 
venerated his father, and remembered his farewell counsel.. 
Mr. Worth had not yet reached the end of his journey, but 
he improved every pause to hold communion with the be- 
ings, more endeared, if possible, by absence and increasing 
distance. His letters were sterling gold from the heart’s 
treasury. They were fraught with breathings of affection, 
emanations of soul, counsels of wisdom, admonitions of 
love, tender reminiscences of the past, and kindling hopes 
of the future. They were sometimes addressed to his 
wife alone. In these the gallantry of the lover, a dash of 
the chivalrous spirit of olden times, mingled with the 
confiding tenderness of the husband, and gave a charm to 
his letters that a woman only could appreciate. Sometimes 
they were addressed to his Wife 4^ Co.; and it was pleas- 
ing to see how perfectly he could adapt himself to the 
peculiarities of every juvenile mind, from the sensitive 
pride of Homer, to the infai^tine simplicity of Estelle 
The answers to these letters were so characteristic of the 
young writers, that we cannot but think they will prove 
interesting to the reader. We will give a few specimens, 
believing them the living transcripts of the youthful mind. 
Homer never suffered his brother or sisters to read his^ 
epistles, and of course he would not allow a stranger’s eye 
to scan the lines. We will begin with Edmund, whose 
thoughts, clear and bright as the sun, were open to the 
scrutiny of all. Edmund was the most unselfish of human 
beings. It will be observed how seldom he speaks of 
himself. 

Edmund’s letter to his father. 

“Dearest Father: — Your letter, received last night, was 
a family feast. We all gathered round mother with hungry 
ears to hear it ; and sweet as her voice always is, it never 
sounded sweeter than it did then. You describe every thing 
so minutely, we feel as if we were with you, and I now know 
how true it ’s, what you said about letter-writing. Every 
thing that takes place, we think, ‘ That will interest father : 
we will be sure to put that in our next letter,’ — ^but when we 
have the pen in hand, and see it on paper, it doesn’t appear 
half as well. I have been reading a great deal, and study 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 169 

mg too. I want to tell you how much I have read id 
Greek and Latin, when you return, and how far I have got 
in mathematics. But I ought not to speak of my studying 
by the side of Homer : he is at his books from morning till 
night, and, I have no doubt, will be a very great man one 
of these days. We go to Mr. Farnham's office every day 
to recite, though the mud is sometimes up to our knees. 
You have reached better regions than ours, or poor Faithful 
would be lost in the slough of despondency. Of all months 
in the year, I believe March is the most dismal : — it is 
neither spring nor winter, but the mud and the snow seem 
fighting all the time. Bessy saw a little patch of green 
grass yesterday, peeping out on the edge of the pond, (she 
calls it lake,) on the south side of the house, and she called 
us all from the four points of the compass, to come and 
worship the first herald of spring. O father, I have a 
secret to tell you, but you must not breathe it to the winds, 
lest they should bear it back to Bessy’s ear. I found a 
paper the other day, covered with certain strange characters, 
which, upon examining closely, I discovered to be verses 
of poetry, crossed and recrossed, — but real genuine rhymes, 
in Bessy’s handwriting. She actually cried when I 
showed them to her, and would not be pacified till I gave 
them up. They were upon your absence, and some of the 
lines were very pretty. I recollect two or three : — 

‘ O father, dear ! why thus your stay prolong ? 

The days are darksome, and seem twice as long; 

Whene’er I look upon the setting sun 
I think of you, and wish your journey done ; 

And, though I loved you, dearly loved before, — 

I do believe I love you more and more.’ 

Now don’t you think our azure-eyed Bessy will be a 
poetess by-and-by ? Her eyes have the true poeticalf up- 
ward turn, and she never sees a volume of poems without 
a bright glow of delight on her cheeks. Emma has not 
been as w’ell as usual for a few days: she caught cold, and 
has a troublesome cough. I often fear that she is too good 
for this world, — too gentle, and too weak ; I don’t believe 
Emma ever told an untruth, or committed an evil act in her 
whole life : she always seems thinking about heaven. I 
must not forget to tell you an anecdote of Estelle : — the 
other day I found her weeping in a little corner by herself ; 


170 


AUNT PATT\ S SCRAP-B xG. 


it was a long time before she would tell me what was the 
matter with her ; at last she said she was afraid she was 
going to die. ‘ Why, little Estelle, you look the picture 
of health !’ ‘Because, — cause,’ answered she, sobbing, ‘I 
heard Aunt Patty tell somebody I was too smart to live long.’ 
Really, dear father, she is the most amusing little creature 
you ever knew, — she and Aunt Patty together; I mean 
Aunt Patty is amusing too, in her odd way, — and is she 
not the best and kindest of human beings, ahvays excepting 
my beloved mother ? I cannot bear to leave jmu, dear 
father, but I have promised Emma the other half of the 
sheet, as we write together, and I will not encroach on her 
limits, as she always follows the golden rule, without 
deviating one hair’s-breadth. I find I have done it already, 
for there is only one page left. I cannot help it now, so 
pray forgive me, and believe me your affectionate son, 

“ Edmund.” 

“Dear and beloved Father: — Edmund wrote the above, 
two or three days ago, and I would have finished it 
immediately, but company came so very unexpectedly. 
The riding is so bad we never thought of seeing a 
human being, — but just as we were all nicely seated 
round the evening fire, and all of us feeling so quiet and 
happy, — that is, as happy as we can be without you, a 
carriage drove up into the yard, and we could not think 
who it was. It was Mr. and Mrs. Wharton, with Francis 
and Laura, all on their way home to Boston, from a visit 
to a friend who lives far in the country, where they 
have been detained a long time. You remember, they 
stopped here when they were going, and it was good 
sleighing, and they were all wrapped up in buffalo-skins, 
and their horses had more strings of bells than I ever saw 
before. They were obliged to leave their sleigh and return 
in a carriage, and they are going to rest here several days. 
We were very glad to see them for they are so lively and 
agreeable : but I don’t think I e '■er would be tired of bejtg 
with ourselves, alone. I love stillness, and I love home 
just for itself, and because we can do just as we please ; 
and when any one is visiting here, we must give up out 
usual pursuits, and do every thing to entertain the company. 
[ am afraid I am very selfish, and will try to correct myself. 
They have all indulged me so much, and been so kind ana 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 171 

tender, there is great dinger ot my thinking more than 1 
ought of my own gratification. They always give me the 
warmest seat in the room, because I am apt to take cold ; 
if we ride abroad, I must always wear the warmest cloak 
or shawl, and I must ride oftener than anybody else, be- 
cause, they say, the exercise will strengthen me : — and I 
can do so little in return for them. Edmund is the kindest 
brother that ever was in the world : I believe he wou.d 
walk barefoot to the end of the universe, if his mother or 
sisters asked him. Francis Wharton seems a good boy, 
but he is not like Edmund, — he is' more boisterous and rude. 
I cannot think what pleasure there is in making a noise : 
it only gives me a headache. Laura is a very fashionable 
little Miss, and, I have no doubt, thinks me quite a dowdy. 
Bessy admires her very much, and she says Bessy is a 
great beauty. Oh ! I hope you will come home very soon, 
for we all long to see you so much. My heart aches to be 
near you once more, — to feel your kind hand on my head, 
and )mur good-night kiss on my cheek. Dearest father, if 
it is so hard to part from friends for a little, time here, how 
can we ever leave them, and think we shall never, never 

return ?” Here a tear, which blotted the next word, 

indicated a sad foreboding in the heart of the young 
invalid. 

Bessy had the privilege of writing with red ink, cross- 
ways, in her mother’s letter; and it was a colour suited 
well to her glowing imagination. 

“ Dear Father,” said she, “ it is a pity that I am yiunger 
than Edmund and Emma, for they tell you all the news 
before my turn comes. Fanny Wharton has told me so 
many beautiful things about the city, it makes me long to 
visit it. She goes to the theatre very often, and she says 
every thing seems just like a fairy-tale, so brilliant and 
changing all the time. Father, if you get very rich while 
you are gone, you must take us all to the theatre and 
museum, and to see all the fine things in all the cities. I 
don’t think I should care any thing about balls and parties, 
but [ do want to see those bright, strange things, such as I 
dream about so often. — Oh ! 1 had such a wonderful dream, 
I must relate it: you told mu I might write a dream, if I 
hadn’t any thing else to say. I thought I saw a large 
ciock, — so large, that it reached up to the skies, and it went 


172 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

down, all out of sight; the hands looked as big as iron bam 
and when it struck, it sounded as loud as thunder. Ever) 
time it struck, it said ‘ Time^ Time^ Time * — so deep aow. 
solemn, it made me feel trembling all over. Wasn’t that a 
strange dream for a little girl like me ? Aunt Patty says, 
it means that something great is going to happen to me. I 
Know, when I went to bed that night, I laid awake, think- 
ing how strange it was that we were in this world now, 
and wouldn’t be here by-and-by, and trying to think what 
the difference was between time and eternity. It seemed 
to me, — and perhaps it was very wicked, — that if I thought 
about it long enough, I could find out how it was, that God 
never began to be. Every night these thoughts came upon 
me, and, I cannot help it, I lie and look up to the moon 
and stars, and things come into my mind that I never read 
or heard about, and it seems as if angels told them to me. 
Estelle just came to me and said, ‘Tell father. Aunt Patty 
don’t give me too much to eat, — I don’t mean to be an 
animal.’ A lady called here yesterday to see Mrs. Whar- 
ton, who offended Aunt Patty very much. ‘ Why, how 
homely little Estelle grows,’ said she; ‘she is really getting 
quite course.’ ‘Ask the lady to look in the glass,’ said 
Aunt Patty. Everybody laughed, and the lady didn’t 
look pleased, — she wasn’t pleased with any thing. ‘ Why, 
Emma is qhite deformed,’ said she ; ‘one shoulder is larger 
than the other.’ ‘ I’d rather have a crooked back than a 
crooked mind,’ retorted Aunt Patty. You know poor 
Emma is weak, and cannot sit very straight ; and I think 
it was cruel to say any thing to hurt her feelings. I 
thought the lady had a very cross look, and, as she was 
squint-eyed, perhaps she couldn’t see right. Oh ! pray 
forgive this big blot, for Frank Wharton pushed my arm 
on purpose, because 1 wouldn’t get up and play with him. 
Please writq me a letter all to myself, that I can keep ; and 
I will keep it so precious, no one shall know its place. 
You don’t know how much we all love you — 

“ Farewell ! my tongue or pen can never tell 
The flames of love that in my bosom dwell. 

“ Bessy.” 

Bessy, like most juvenile poets, v'as prone to extrava- 
gance in her expressions of affection, but her father knew 


AUNT PATTY S SCRAP-BAG. 173 

jhow to appreciate them; and, doubtless, thofse artless 
effusions were priceless in his estimation. 

Shall we follow the wife to her lonely chamber, whither 
she has retired after the children have separated for the 
night, and steal a glance at the sheet on which she is pour- 
ing out her soul unto her husband ? There, like the lovely 
Geraldine, “all in her night-robe loose, she sits reclined,’* 
“o’er her dear bosom strays her hazle hair,” while she 
traces on the silent page before her the thoughts she had 
been gamering up through the day. Foolish children ! to 
think their mother would steal all the stirring incidents of 
the day, and leave them nothing to relate. That page is 
the heart’s scroll unrolled, — a tablet of pure, elevated, kin- 
dling thoughts, and warm, deep, yea, unfathomable love, — a 
love far more deep and intense than when, in Aunt Patty’s 
legend, she stood in white satin and lace, the handsomest 
bride Parson Bloomfield ever united in the holy bands of 
matrimony. Angels guard thee in thy retirement, thou 
faithful wife and tender mother ! We will not invade thy 
hallowed sanctuary. Thy lamp is the last that glimmers 
on the darkness of the neighbourhood ; and many an eye 
that looks up from a sick and restless pillow on the mystery 
of night, blesses thee ; and many a sad heart likens thee 
to that cheering ray. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Frank and Laura Wharton remained several weeks 
with their young country friends, in consequence of the 
almost impassable state of the roads. There were two 
members of the family who lamented their protracted stay, — 
Homer, who always looked upon strangers with distrust 
and dislike, and Emma, whose feeble nerves shrunk from 
contact with those whose animal spirits effervesced so 
boisterously as Frank’s, and whose refined simplicity was 
little pleased with the fine-lady airs of Laura. Edmund’s 
joyous nature found something congenial in the gayety and 
'iv^armth of Frank’s character, jnd Bessy’s ardent imagiim- 


174 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


tion was completely captivated by Laura’s over-wroughl 
description of theatrical splendours and fashionable amuse- 
ments. Mrs. Worth saw, with some maternal fear, this 
new influence exercised on her daughter’s susceptible mind, 
but she trusted it would pass away like one of her own 
vivid dreams. Mrs. Wharton had been the friend of her 
youth, but though a very charming maiden, she did not 
prove a judicious mother, — believing excessive indulgence 
a parent’s crowning glory. 

“ I never had the heart to deny my children any thing,” 
she would often say to her friend. “You have more reso- 
lution than I have. I should fear to lose their affection, if 
I refused to gratify their wishes.” 

“ Do you not think my children love me ?” asked Mrs. 
Worth. ‘ 

“ Yes : I never saw children so affectionate or obedient : 
a look from you has more effect than a thousand words 
from me. But your children are very different from mine. 
You must have perceived how very difficult mine are to 
manage.” 

Mrs. Worth smiled. She believed all children difficult to 
manage, who were not accustomed to be controlled from in- 
fancy ; and she felt very certain, that if the superfluous 
energy of Frank, and the luxuriant taste of Laura, had been 
earlier restrained and directed, they would only have 
strengthened and adorned the characters they now threat- 
ened to deform. 

At length a mild, bright, genial morning succeeded to a 
week of clouds and east w'inds. Glimpses of green were 
seen on the edges of streams, that now rolled in the glad- 
ness of vernal freedom, reflecting in their waters the intense 
blue of a cloudless sky. Here and there a large flock of 
swallows floated like a dark wave overhead, showing that 
the “ time of singing-birds was coming,” and that the winged 
w'anderers were all about to return from a more southern 
clime. Bessy ran into the room in a perfect glow of rap 
ture. “ Look^ mother,” exclaimed she, holding up a pale, 
small, delicate blue flower, unprotected by a single green 
leaf, “ I have found the first flower of Spring. Here is 
a Houstonia cerulea, that 1 have plucked in yonder field 
It looked like a star shining thnmgh the darkness.” 

“Really, Bessy,” said Fraik, laughing loudly “onf» 


aunt patty’s scrap- bag. 175 

would ihink yeu had found a s' rinjr of diamonds, or a purs© 
of gold, instead of this little, old, pinched flower.” 

“ She talks as if she had found an exotic,” said Laura. 

Bessy blushed, and thought it very likely, that in com- 
parison with the exotics of the greenhouse, her little spring 
flower wv^uld dwindle into insignificance. She felt ashamed 
of her enthusiasm, and the glow faded from her cheek. 

“ Let us all take a walk and gather flowers,” said Ed- 
mund, “ Bessy’s star shall guide us on our way.” 

This proposition was hailed with joy by the youthful 
party, and Bessy forgot her mortification in the excitement 
of the preparation. Emma, whose delicacy of health pre- 
cluded her from such an enjoyment at this season of the year, 
shawled and bonnetted the little Estelle, who kept jumping 
up and down the whole time, making the operation almost 
impracticable, in the exuberance of her glee. She lingered 
on the threshold, after the gay pedestrians had departed, 
till their merry laugh died on her ear, then turned away 
with a sigh. The soft, blue sky, the murmur of the rivulet, 
the song of the birds, and the April flower, instead of ex- 
citing her spirits to buoyancy and mirth, filled her heart 
with a tender sadness, which longed to gush forth in tears. 
The gay sports of childhood — the long walk in the open air 
— “ the hop, skip and jump,” in which young and elastic 
limbs delight, were not I’or her. 

“ I wish I were strong and healthy,” said she, seating 
herself again near the fire, and pressing her hand on her 
aching side ; “ one must be so happy when they can forget 
the body, and let it do just as it pleases.” 

Homer, who was the only person then present, and who 
was leaning over a book, with his hand placed over both 
ears, to exclude every noise, turned hastily round at the 
sound of her voice, for he did not like to be interrupted ; 
there was a frown upon his bf dw, and an impatient motion 
of the lip. But there was something in the drooping atti- 
tuae of Emma, and her pale, dejected countenance, that ap 
pcaleu to his sympathy, and painfully recalled his father’s 
parting words. She was gazing in the fire, and large tears 
slowly chased each other down her cheeks. “ Emma, what 
IS the matter ?” said he, taking a seat by her side — “ what 
makes you look so sorrowful ? Surely you don’t care aboit 
walking with that boisterous Frank and his silly little sister. 


AUNT patty's scrap-bag. 


Emma was touched by the unusual kindness of H#mer*i 
manner, and her tears flowed faster. “ I don’t know what 
is the matter with me,” said she, “ only I am nervous and 
foolish, and, I am afraid, selfish too. For when I heard 
them so merry and laughing, I felt is if I must cry, or my 
neart would break. O brother, you don’t know how hard 
it is, when one is so very young, to feel as weak and lan- 
guid as 1 do sometimes ; and to think, too, that I may never 
live to be much older.” 

“ Don’t talk so, Emma, don’t. You know you have been 
better than ever this winter, and when the weather gets 
warm, and you can ride abroad more, and wa4k in the gar- 
den, and attend to the flowers, you v/ill be in better spirits.” 

“ But I am so useless,” said Emma, “ yet everybody is 
so kind to me. I sometimes feel very willing to die ; and 
think it is a beautiful thing to die young, before one knows 
any thing of the wickedness of the world. Then, again, to 
leave every one we love, and lie down alone in the cold 
grave — oh ! it’s a dreadful thought !” 

Emma involuntarily gave expression to feelings which had 
often chilled her veins at the midnight hour, and saddened 
her noonday meditations. She so seldom spake of her suf- 
ferings and fears, that Homer was greatly shocked and af- 
fected by her desponding expressions. He felt drawn to- 
wards her by a tenderness such as he had never felt before, 
and resolved that he would henceforth endeavour to contri- 
Dute to her happiness and comfort. He had always stood 
aloof from his brothers and sisters, refusing to share in their 
joys or their sorrows, till they ceased to look for his partici- 
pation in either. Emma, sad and sickl}'-, left behind, because 
unable to unite in the active enjoyments of childhood, be- 
came, from this moment, a thousand times dearer to him 
than the blooming Bessy, or rosy Estelle. He put his arm 
soothingly round her, a caressing motion so strange in the 
cold, repelling Homer, that Emma lifted her eyes wonder 
ingly to his face to prove his identity. 

“ You must not give way to such gloomy thoughts, Em- 
ma,” said he ; “ that noisy Frank has given you a headache 
and made you nervous and weak. When I am a man, and 
father gets the fortune he has gone to secure, I mean to have 
,a house of my own, and you shall come and live with me. 
Edmund will be a fine gentlema i, and € 9 " •' Bessy into th« 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 177 

gprcat world, and show her the theatres and museums that 
Laura tells so much about, but you and I despise sucti 
things, and we’ll live together, and have nothing to do witn 
the rest of the world. We’ll have a ’library as large as the 
Alexandrian library, and fine pictures and statues from Eu- 
rope. I would like a wall built round the house, and a 
drawbridge that would lift up, so that no one could enter 
unless we chose to admit them.” 

But don’t you mean to marry when you get old enough, 
Homer,” asked Emma, her spirits reviving at the unusual 
kindness of the young misanthropist. 

“No, never,” answered he, with a look of scorn, “I 
would as soon five in Aunt Patty’s scrap-bag. All women 
are foolish, except my mother.” 

“ But, perhaps, some of the little girls may grow wise 
enough for you, Homer, by the time you are ready,” said 
Emma, now smiling through her tears. “ Who knows but 
that Laura Wharton may be a wise woman yet ? I heard 
her say, she thought you a great deal handsomer than Ed- 
mund, and that she expected you would make a great man.” 

“You know she never said that of me,” replied Homer, 
angrily, “ except in ridicule. I had rather any one would 
stab me than laugh at me.” 

“ No, indeed, brother ; she said it to Frank, when she did 
not know any one heard her. And he laughed, and said 
you had as much beauty as a thunder-cloud.” 

A gleam, like lightning, darted across the ‘ thunder-cloud.’ 
[t was a pleasant thing to be thought superior to Edmund, 
even by Frank’s silly little sister. Homer, in this inter- 
view, had manifested two unwonted human emotions ; sym- 
pathy for sorrow, and susceptibility to praise. 

In the mean time, the young pedestrians continued their 
morning walk, rejoicing. Even the little city maiden, who 
was too genteel to wear any thing but kid shoes, which were 
soon sadly soiled by the mud, forgot her measured pace, ana 
bounded and ran with the rest. If they saw a green patch 
on the dark ground-work of the soil, there was a simultaneous 
shout, and a rush towards the spot, striving to see who should 
reach it first. Edmund always reached the goal first, 
though Frank was the first to start, and was sure to push 
down soiree one in his way, whether accidentally or inten- 
'tionally it is ditficuk to solve. One# overturned Estelle, 


178 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

and threw her flat on her face in the mud, bending the wiK 
of lier bonnet in such a grotesque manner, it threw him intt 
con /ulsions of laughter. 

“ Oh ! Frank, how can you be so rude,” cried Bessy 
wiping the dirt from Estelle’s cheeks and nose ; “ see how 
you have spoiled her pretty bonnet.” 

Frank, who was as good-natured as he was thoughtless, 
checked his mirth at the sight of Estelle’s tears, and insisted 
upon carrying her in his arms, as an expiation for the of- 
fence. The only vengeance which Estelle threatened was 
to tell Aunt Patty ; and when Frank put on a rueful 
look of penitence, she promised to remit even that. 

“ Let us walk to Madame Le Grande’s,” said Edmund, 
“ Laura "will be delighted with her, she is so fashionable, 
and a French lady besides.” 

“ Oh, yes !” exclaimed Laura, “ I know from her name 
she must be charming. Has she any daughters ?” 

“Only one,” answered Edmund, “a very accomplished 
young lad3r, named Victorine.” 

“ Oh ! what a beautiful name !” cried Laura, “ T long tc 
see her. But why didn’t you tell me sooner ? I have on 
only an every-day frock, and I couldn’t think of calling there 
now.” 

“ Never mind,” said Frank, “ Madame Le Grande and 
Mademoiselle Victorine both will excuse it. People who 
live in great style are never as particular in their dress as 
others.” 

“ Must we parlez-vous Francois to Mademoiselle Yicto- 
nne, or does she understand English 'well ?” asked Frank,- 
laughing. 

“ She can speak both languages fluently,” replied Ed- 
mund, “it makes no difference which you use.” 

Here Laura made a full pause by the wayside, to arrange 
her dress and smooth her hair before presenting herself to 
the fashionable Madame Le Grande. Bessy very good na- 
turedly assisted her in her toilet, though she seemed exces- 
sively amused at her superfluous anxiety about her personal 
appearance. Sometimes she would shake back her own 
golden ringlets, from her smiling eyes and glowing cheeks,, 
and burst into a merry peal of laughter, in which Estelle 
joined ; but Edmund looked grave, and icld them Mademoi- 
selle Victorine nev*^*- ia ighed loud. 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 179 

“ There is Madame Le Grande’s,” exclaimed he, as a lowj 
feded white cottage appeared, situated far back from the road- 
side, with a dark railing in front, which ran along, unbroken 
by a gate. 

“ That Madame Le Grande’s,” cried Laura, with a look 
of astonishment ; “ I thought you said she lived in great style.” 

“ But you have not seen the inside. You know the 
French don’t pay so much attention to the outside of the 
houses as the English.” 

The children were obliged to jump over the railing foi 
want of a gate, and were soon at the door of the cottage. 

“ I never should dream of such a great lady as Madam© 
Le Grande’s living in such a little, old place as this,” said 
Laura. 

“ But it is beautiful in summer,” cried Bessy ; “ only look, 
Laura, what a charming prospect there is, even now.” 

Th« children looked back upon a landscape, on which 
some faint traces of vernal beauty were beginning to steal 
over the bleakness of departing winter. The river, graceful 
in its continuous undulations, rolled sparkling and shining 
through the meadows and fields, reflecting the blue of the 
sky ; and, melting into that beauteous blue, was seen the soft 
outline of distant mountains, girdling the valley with an 
azure zone. 

“Is it not lovely ?” repeated Bessy, with growing enthu- 
siasm. “ But if you saw it in summer, when the trees are 
all covered with green leaves, and the fields are all green, 
and the flowers spring up here and there, and everywhere, 
and the fruit hangs on the boughs, you would say you never 
saw any thing so beautiful in all your life.” 

Here the door opened, and the tide of Bessy’s eloquence 
was arrested by the ample person of Madame Le Grande 
herself. Laura, who had prepared to make her handsomest 
dancing-school courtesy, stood rigid with astonishment at 
the extraordinary figure which met her gaze. Madame Le 
Grande was dressed in the fashion of the last century, but 
the original colour of her robe it was impossible to deter- 
mine, as it seemed to have been worn for years, without 
passing through the cusmmary ablutions. She wore a tur- 
ban of dirty yellow, wh ii looked coeval with her dress, 
and her dingy brown hair defied, in its tangles, the aid of 
brush or comb. He • complexion might have h en fair, bul 


180 


AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 


it was brown with the accumulated soil and dust of time 
Ind eed, she was well worthy of the name by which she was 
universally known — the queen of slovens.. Yet, beneath 
this disgusting exterior, she carried the native graces of a 
Frenchwoman, and invited her young guests to enter, with 
smiles and bows, that would have graced a city drawing- 
room. Frank took ofFhis hat, and bowed down to the ground ; 
but Laura, casting an indignant glance at Edmund, made no 
acknowledgment of the lady’s politeness. She pressed her 
frock close to her, as she passed through the door, which 
she entered, after the others, led on by an impulse of irre- 
pressible curiosity. The parlour, or sitting-room, or bou- 
doir, or whatever name it bore, was indeed furnished in a 
most original manner, and occupied by original guests. A 
young girl about Bessy’s age was seated by the fire, em- 
broidering a dingy green shawl, with parti-coloured crewel. 
A young pig was crouched at her feet, in a loving position, 
and on a large table on her left was reposing eight or nine 
young cats and kittens, which looked as if they lived in the 
chimney, so begrimmed with soot and smoke were their 
once white and silky coats. Some very familiar and do- 
mestic looking hens were walking about the room, occasion- 
ally picking corn from the ^.oor, evidently scattered there 
for their accommodation. A gentleman, dressed in a suit 
of faded black, sat on the other side of the fireplace, sc 
intent upon a book, in which he was reading, that he 
did not at first notice the entrance of the juvenile vi- 
sitors. But when he raised his head, he discovered a 
countenance so benign and intelhgent, a forehead so high 
and commanding, an eye so bright and winning, that 
in spite of his strange accomq)ani'.nents, he won, instan- 
taneously, the respect which is a gentleman’s due. The 
young girl, who was Mademoiselle Victorine, laid her em- 
broidery frame by the side of the cats, and asked the young 
ladies to be seated. Her appearance was as singular as 
her mother, but there was not the slightest personal resem- 
blance. Her eyes were of a deep, brilliant black, and her long 
hair, of the same hue, hung in matted tresses down her back. 
The ground -work of her frock had once been white, but it 
had lost all its original nurity, and large bunches of flowers 
were dimly seen delineated on the dusky expanse. It was 
emarkable to see the ease and grace with which this strange 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 181 

aod grotesque-looking girl accosted her guests, and acted 
the part of a hostess. 

Edmund and Bessy, who were familiarized to the myste- 
ries of this singular household, enjoyed the silent wonder of 
Frank and Laura, who looked as bewildered as if they were 
plunged in the midst of a menagerie. By the side of the 
table of cats was an old-fashioned harpsichord, and over it 
were several rows of bookshelves, filled with classic works. 
That Monsieur Le Grande was a scholar, was evident from 
the authors which he had selected ; that Mademoiselle Vic- 
torine was an accomplished child, seemed as evident from 
the embroidery frame and harpsichord, and Madame Le 
Grande had the manners of a lady of the first rank. And 
yet they lived among animals, in the midst of congenial ele- 
ments, regardless of the comforts and decencies of life, ap- 
parently as contented and happy as the inmates of a palace. 

“ We have a great many pets,” said Madame Le Grande, 
looking smilingly round on her dumb favourites, “ but I 
could not spare one of the dear creatures !” 

“ I would not give Fidele for all of them,” cried Victo- 
rine, caressing a little shaggy dog, that just emerged from a 
heap of rubbish, and leaped barking into her lap. 

“ Let us go,” whispered Laura to Bessy, “ it makes me 
sick to see so much dirt.” 

When the children rose to depart, Madame Le Grande 
loaded their handkerchiefs with apples and nuts, which 
they said they would carry home and divide with Emma. 

When they left the house, Laura reproached Edmund 
and Bessy for deceiving her so, declaring that she would 
rather starve than eat any thing that came out of such a 
den of wild beasts. Frank was in boisterous spirits ; and 
pretended to be in raptures with Victorine, asserting that 
she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. 

“She would be beautiful,” said Bessy, “if she were 
dressed nice, and kept her hair smooth, and her face fair; 
she makes me think of the stories I have read about gip- 
sies, with her shining black eyes and coal black hair.” 

“ But what makes them live in such a dirty ole place, 
among the pigs, and cats, and dogs ?” asked Laura. “1 
don’t think Christ.an people ought to visit them.” 

“ You must get Aunt Patty to tell you all she knows 
about them,” replied Edmund. “ She has a scrap of Vio 
12 


182 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

Corine’s flowered frock ; and if you can only draw that oui 
of her bag, the family history will come with it. I have 
heard my father say that Monsieur Le Grande was one of 
the most intellio-ent, w^ll-informed gentlemen he ever met 
with ; and that he wo'dd be an ornament to any society. 
They are very wealthy, and extremely kind to the pocr.” 

“ One of these days,” said Frank, “ when I get to be a 
man, I mean to come back and see Mademoiselle Victorine : 
I will learn her how to wash her face and comb her hair, 
and make a fine lady of her.” 

The idea of Victorine’s taking toilet lessons of Frank, 
amused the children excessively ; and as the springs of 
mirth, when once touched, are apt to vibrate long in the 
breast of childhood, they continued to laugh till they reached 
the threshold of home. 

In the evening, when the children were discoursing the 
events of the day, Laura reminded Edmund of his promise, 
to tell them something more about the strange, dirty family 
they had visited in the morning. 

“Oh! Aunt Patty must tell you,” replied Edmund; 
“ she is the historian of the town. But she must produce 
her scrap-bag first, for she keeps her memory tied up with 
her pieces.” 

This was a request which Aunt Patty never refused; 
and she was soon seated in the midst of a circle of smiling 
faces. Estelle sat on a little stool at her feet, holding her 
snuff-box in her left hand, with the right extended, ready 
to plunge in the opening reservoir. Emma sat quietly 
near; the tears of the morning, exhaled in the sunshine of 
Homer's kindness, had left a soft glow on her cheek, 
delicate as the hue of the rose when the dew has just dried 
on its petals. Bessy leaned over her lap so close that the 
rich foliage of her waving hair shaded the fair tints of her 
sister’s firce, while it seemed to glorify her own. Nothing 
could be more charming than the young group that sur- 
rounded Aunt Patty — the sibyl of the evening. Laura, 
with her smooth, brown locks braided down her back, and 
tied at the ends with blue ribbon, formed a pleasing con- 
trast to the two lovely sisters. And then Frank’s round, 
laughing face, peeping over Edmund’s shoulder, as if ready 
to penetrate the mysteries of the bag ; and Edmund’s brow 
so fair and noble, and wearing that prince y expression 


AUNT patty’s s::RAP-BAG. 183 

peculiar to himself! — It was a family picture exhibited Jii 
the light a painter best loves. And how proud Aunt Patty 
looked, to be the cynosure of those starry eyes — the living 
focus of those rays of youth and beauty. She undrew 
the string of her scrap-bag, smiled, and nodded, patted 
Estelle on the head, then taking a large pinch of snuff, Ed- 
mund declared she sneezed out of the bag the identical 
sample of Victorine’s frock, which was destined to be the 
subject of their evening’s entertainment. Sure enough, it 
lay on the top of the pieces, conspicuous for its enormous 
flowers and gaudy colours. 

“ Tell us all about Victorine, Aunt Patty,” said Frank- 
“ Did she spring up there, among her cats and pigs, or has 
sne lately come over from the great city of Paris ?” 

“ You must let me begin in the right place,” replied 
Aunt Patty, smoothing out the flowers on her knee, “ or I 
never shall tell any thing straight. The first time I ever 
saw Victorine, it was about two years ago, and she had on 
this very frock ” 

“ And she’s worn it ever since, I dare say,” said Frank. 

“Hush! Frank,” said Laura; “you always interrupt 
one so.” 

“Well,” continued Aunt Patty, “very likely she has, 
for the poor thing don’t know any better. Her mother 
Itfings her up among the animals, and, as they don’t change 
their coats, I suppose she thinks there is no occasion for 
her to change hers. One Sunday afternoon, just as the 
services closed, there came up a terrible storm of rain, and 
it thundered and lightened too. The carriage went home 
first with my niece Emma, Mrs. W'orth that now is, and 
little Emma and Bessy. Edmund waited with me, for I 
was afraid to ride when it thundered, and we sat down in- 
one of the pews till the carriage should return. Edmund 
got tired sitting still, and went up in the gallery, and walked 
about there at his leisure. Who should he see there, all 
by herself, but a little girl in a flowered frock and green 
bonnet, crying bitterly. He came down and told me what 
he had seen, and I sent him back to bring her to me, for it 
is hard work for me to hobble up stairs with my crutch. 
The poor thing came crying and hanging down her head, 
saying, she didn’t know how to get home, and she thought 
she was %ione in the big church. 1 asked her where 


184 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

ghe lived, and told her 1 would take her home when the 
carriag^e came, but that she needn’t be afraid in the churchj 
'or it was no other than the house of God and the gate of 
heaven. It rained very hard when we left the church, and 
we had to go a roundabout way to carry the child ’"ome. 
The horses got restive, going backwa d and forward in the 
storm, and when we stopped to set her down, they wouldn’ 
stand still, but arched their necks and frisked about in » 
frightful manner. The little girl jumped out like a squirrel, 
and Edmund leaped after her and tried to get at the horses’ 
heads. But, quicker than lightning, they sprang up in the 
air, and overturned the carriage in a moment.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Patty ! didn’t they kill you ?” cried Estelle. 

“ Not quite, my darling. I knew nothing in the world 
till I found myself between a pair of sheets that Adam and 
Eve might have slept in, for aught I know : all the waters 
of the deluge wouldn’t have made them clean. The wild, 
heathenish looking child was standing on one side of me, 
and a big woman in a yellow turban on the other. I tried to 
move, but I was so bruised and hurt I could. j t lift my hand 
to my head ; and there I had to stay three days and nights.” 

“ In those dreadful sheets ?” asked Bessy. 

“ No, child ; the first night I was there a blood-vessel 
broke, in consequence of my fall, and every thing round me 
was stained wdth the blood that flowed from my mouth. 
Your mother, who came to me, as soon as she heard of the 
accident, sent for clean linen and napkins, saying, she could 
not think of giving so much trouble to my kmd hostess. 
And kind, indeed, she was ; and so was little Victorine. 
They watched by me as if I were the dearest friend they 
had in the world ; and I believe it is owing to the skilful 
nursing of Madame Le Grande that I am yet in the land 
of the living.” 

“ I do believe,” interrupted Laura, “ that I would rather 
die than have that ugly, dirty woman, do any thing for me.” 

“ She is not half as dirty as the damp grave and the 
earth-worm,” replied Aunt Patty with solemnity. “I’ll 
tell thee what, child, if you were lying in agony, thinking, 
perhaps, every hour might bring you into the presence of 
the Holy One of Israel, anJ all your sins passing before 
your eyes, dark and thick, you wouldn’t be squeamish about 
hands that smoothed ycur pillow, and held your a^hiag 


AUNT patty’s scrap- DAO. 185 

Lead. You would be thankful to be nursed by any one in 
the world, or your heart is harder than I think it is.” 

“ I would like to know,” said Frank, “ what made Mon- 
sieur Le Grande, who is really a fine-looking gentleman, 
marry such a witch of Endor, as she is.” 

“ 1 can tell you,” said Aunt Patty, “ for I heard him tell 
Mr. Worth all about it, one night, when I was there, and 
they thought I was asleep. They had' been talking about 
books, and every thing one can think of, when Mr. Worth 
told him, that he wondered to see a man of his talents 
?nd education, willing to live so retired, and that he would 
assist him in choosing a situation more suited to his charac- 
ter. He said, all he wanted was leisure and retirement, and 
leave to do just as he pleased. “ Madame Le Grande,” 
said he, “has peculiar tastes, and so have I. We promised, 
when we married, not to interfere with each other, and not 
to let the world interrupt us. I was a poor young student, 
and she a rich widow, who, taking a fancy to me, poor as I 
was.asked me to marry her, and you know 1 could not refuse.” 

“ Oh ! how bold,” exclaimed Bessy ; “ I shouldn’t think a 
woman could be so bold.” 

“Nor I either,” replied Aunt Patty with energy; “I 
wouldn’t ask a man to have me if he was made of diamonds, 
and cased in gold. It is a sin and a shame, and a disgrace 
to the -whole sex. If the truth were told, it is the way half 
the women get married, I do believe.” 

“ So do I,” said Frank, “ and one of these days Victorine 
will ask me, and I will make a low bow, and say. Yes — 1 
thank you. Mademoiselle, with all my heart.” 

The children all laughed at Frank, and at the impression 
the little French gipsy had made on his imagination. The 
rest of Aunt Patty’s history was too discursive, and inter- 
rupted too often, to be able to follow it in a connected man- 
ner. Indeed, her youthful auditors manifested some symp- 
toms of uneasiness before its close, and Estelle, falling fast 
asleep, suffered Aunt Patty’s snuff-box to drop on the car- 
pet, close by her kitten’s nose, who ran round the room 
sneezing at every step. 

In a few days, Mrs. W larton and her children bade 
adieu to their friends, and departed for their city home. 
Laura and Bessy exchanged warm professions of friend- 
ship and promises of a regular <*~^spondence. Frank 


186 


AUNT patty’s s<::rap-bag. 


shocked Emma’s refined sense of propriety, by giving 
Bessy and herself a loud kiss on the cheek, where modest 
roses flushed crimson at the unwonted freedom. 

“ Thank Heaven,” exclaimed Homer, as the carriage rolled 
from the door. 

“And thank Htaven,” repeated the soft voice of Mrs. 
Worth, for at the same moment a letter arrived from her 
husband.. 


CHAPTER V. 

It was autumn — mild, rich, golden autumn. The corn, 
emerging from its folding husks, stood ripening in the mel 
low sunshine ; the vermilion apples glowed through the 
changing leaves ; and the grapes hung in luxuriant clusters, 
through the slender lattice-work that supported the vines. 
And then, the harvest-moon ! how full, how glorious was its 
light ! as its silver wheel seemed to poise itself on high, to 
lengthen the day for the anxious husbandman. The Worth 
family contemplated that moon with throbbing hearts, for 
they knew it illumined the return of the beloved trav^eller. 
He had not been successful in securing the fortune, to which 
he had a just claim, and his last letter was written in a tone 
of unwonted sadness. Mrs. Worth felt some lawful and 
natural regrets at the downfal of their hopes, but they were 
soon merged in the thought of her husband’s return. They 
had been so happy together before, why should they sigh 
for more abundant wealth ? The children were too young 
to feel the full weight of disappointment. They cared for 
nothing but seeing their father once more, doubly endeared 
by long absence. Day after day they gathered under the 
meeting elms, which began to shed here and there a golden 
leaf, to watch for the approach of the stately figure, whose 
departure they had there lingered to behold. Mrs. Worth 
sat at the window that looked down the street, and every 
horseman, whose dark outline \vas defined in the ho. izon, 
made her heart throb quick, and her colour to come and “ go 
with beatings” from that throbbing neart. She wondered 
at his delar The exact day had never been appointed, foi 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 187 

ne had endeavoured to guard against disappointment, by 
speaking in indefinite terms. Still affection fixed on the 
earliest possible day, and apprehensions, always inseparable 
from such intense affection, sometimes flitted darkly before 
her imagination. 

“ I know father will be here to-day,” exclaimed Bessy, 
“ for I had such a beautiful dream last night. I dreamed 
that he came back, looking younger and handsomer than 
ever, and he had glorious wings on his shoulders ; and he 
told us he was going to take us ail to the loveliest country in 
the universe. Yet I felt sorry to hear him say so, for I 
knew I could never love any place so dearly as this, my own 
beautiful home.” 

*•1 don’t think that was a good dream,” said Aunt 
Patty, shaking her head solemnly, “ I never dreamed of 
seeing anybody look like an angel but once, and that was 
Parson Broomfield, the night before he died. It is a bad 
sign. You shouldn't have looked after your father the morn- 
ing he went away, children — I told you not to do it — that 
was another bad sign.” 

“ Hush ! Aunt Patty,” said Edmund, observing Bessy’s 
eyes fill with tears, and his mother turn very pale, notwith- 
standing she had no faith in dreams. “ I will not allow of 
any bad signs about father’s return. See, all nature is in 
smiles to welcome him back, and our hearts and faces ought 
all to be dressed in sunshine. Mark me, dear mother, for a 
true prophet. He will be here to-night before the harvest- 
moon goes down.” 

Mrs. Worth smiled, as she looked upon her son. the 
blooming personification of hope and joy. She looked at ill 
her children, and thought they had all gi’own handsomer and 
taller during their fiither’s absence. She remembered their 
.filial devotion, and thought how it would gladden his heart 
to hear its recital. And Homer, too ! gloomy and misan- 
thropic still, but ever affectionate 'to her, and ofttimes kind 
to Emma She could present her dark-browed boy to his 
father, and tell him, that his parting words had not been 
uttered in vain, 'fhat though the evil spirit had not de- 
parted, like that w hich possessed the bosom of Saul, it could 
be charmed with the music of love. Her eye wandered 
into the garden, and rested on the fragrant grapes, which 
were not allowed tc be culled, till father’s hand iiad gathered 


188 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

the fairest and best ; on the autumnal flowers, whose bltoid 
ing purple, crimson, and yellow, emulated the rainbow 
dyes, and which were also reserved for the paternal eye • 
then turned towards the heavens, so soft and cloudless, i»( 
the day’s declining glory, and she felt as if every thiiy 
breathed of welcome, hope, and joy. She closed her eyee 
in a kind of blissful revery, and the sweet remembrances 
youthful love came vividly back upon her soul. Softly slw- 
glided backward on the stream of time, and smiling images 
rose upon its banks, passed long ago, now brought nearer 
and nearer, brighter and still more bright. The scenes 
her blooming girlhood, her sunny bridal hours, melted aw?^) 
into the mother’s joys and cares, the wife’s time-hallowed 
tenderness. A flood of gratitude and sensibility flowed over 
her heart. She was lost to surrounding objects, and started 
as from the musings of a dream, when Homer touched he? 
on the shoulder, holding a letter in his hand. 

“A letter!” exclaimed she, the chill of disappointment 
freezing her warm hopes. She took it hastily, without no- 
ticing the unusually gloom)'- brow of her first-born. It weu 
a stranger’s hand ; but the postmark bore the name of he- 
husband’s southern residence. It was sealed with black. 
Had a coffin been suddenly placed in the centre of that 
family group, it could not have caused a more shuddering 
sensation than that strange, black-sealed letter. “My 
God !” said Mrs. Worth, dropping it from her nerveless 
fingers, and her head leaned heavily on Homer’s shoulder. 
Edmund sprang to her side, but Homer, feeling a stern joy 
in being his mother’s first supporter in the mysterious trial 
that might await her, frowned upon his brother, and locked 
his arms closely round her. “Oh! mother!” exclaimed 
Bessy, wringing her hands, “ what is the matter ? How 
white she looks ! How blue her lips ! Emma, Emma, she 
is dying !” Estelle clung, weeping bitterly, to Aunt Patty ; 
and Emma, pale and trembling, but self-possessed and 
thoughtful, ran into the house and brought hartshorn and 
cologne, and bathed her mother’s death-like face, and cold 
hands. Edmund had taken the letter from the ground, and 
stood gazing at the black seal, till it seemed as if a black 
pall covered the whole scene. It was the first object which 
met Mrs. Worth’s opening eyes. “ Death, death !’’ she 
groaned — “ There is death in that letter — I cannot open it.^ 


AUNT patty’s scrap- BAO. Ig® 

** Perhaps, dear mother,” cried Eirr^und with ijuivering 
lips, “ it is an accident. This may nave been written since 
father’s departure, and the writer h/mselfbe in mourning.” 

“ Open it,” said she, faintly, “ I cannot do it.” 

Edmund broke the seal, while the paper shook and rus* 
tied in his trembling fingers. He had scarcely read three 
lines, when, with a loud, heart-rending cr}\ ne tossed the 
letter wildly from him, and buried his faec in his mother’s 
lap. That bitter cry was echoed again and again beneath 
the now desolate roof — the cry of orphanage and wo. Only 
one pale lip was silent, one breaking heart was still. 

Speechless and tearless Mrs. Worth was borne to hei 
room, in the arms of her weeping children. Speechless and 
tearless she lay, during the live-long night, with the bright 
harvest moon shining down into her chamber, as if in mock 
ery of her unutterable grief. Kind neighbours came there 
for that wailing cry had been heard, and the whole village was 
soon covered with mourning. The common benefactor and 
friend was no more — the friend of the widow and the orphan 
— and they came to weep with the new-made widow and 
fatherless. He had died of one of the burning fevers of a 
southern clime, and his ashes reposed in a foreign soil. 

Wretched, desolate family ! plunged at once from such a 
height of hope to such an abyss of sorrow. How long was 
that first night of agony ! How intolerable its silvery bright- 
ness. Edmund and Emma knelt on each side of their mo- 
ther’s couch, with their faces buried in the counterpane, 
which became literally saturated with their tears. Once 
in a while, they lifted their dimmed eyes to their mothei’c 
face, but it looked so white and ghastly in the still moon* 
shine, they shuddered, and again veiled their brows. Bessy 
.ay by her mother’s side, her bright locks all dishevelled 
and drooping like the boughs of a weeping-willow. So ter- 
rific w’as the shock to one of her ardent temperament, that 
reason was for awhile unthroned. She seemed to hold in- 
tercourse with invisible beings, and smiled, and made beck 
oning motions with her fingers, and sometimes laughed 
aloud — a horrible sound in that chamber of mourning. Ho- 
mer stood in the w ndow, with dry and bloodshot eyes, 
which M^ere fixeti gloomily, and even fiercely, on the clear 
night-heaven, as if in defiance of the power that had crushed 
all other spirits low. He remembered the hour when his 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


190 

soul had dissolved in a fa:her’s parting embrace — when hit 
deep, solemn accents murmured in his ear, and he had com- 
mitted to his charge so dear, so holy a trust. And now 
that revered form was cold and lifeless, that deep-toned 
voice was still, their home was indeed that of the w:iow 
and fatherless, and he must now be “ their pillar and their 
shield.” Though Hcmer sincerely mourned his fatherp 
W’hom he honoured above all human beings, a feeling of 
independence, of premature manhood, of superiority over 
Edmund, as the elder-born, the right of primogeniture in- 
vesting him with something of paternal dignity, mingled 
strangely with his grief. “ Oh, that 1 were a man !” cried 
he to himself, clenching his hands tightly over his forehead. 
“ I will be one — I never will own another guardian. I my- 
self will be the guardian of the household. My father 
thought me worthy of the trust.” 

Aunt Patty, though the kindest of human beings, knew 
nothing of those delicate shades of feeling, which constitute 
the perfection of a refined character. She knew of no sym- 
pathy but what is expressed in words. She unconsciously 
planted daggers in the hearts of the children, by asking the 
particulars of their father’s death, unable herself to deci- 
pher a stranger’s writing. She tried to console her niece, 
but finding her efforts vain, she sat down, with Estelle in 
her arms, who had sobbed herself to sleep, and was soon nod- 
ding wearily over her. 

Weeks passed by, and, though wailing and lamentation 
had ceased, the sadness of the grave brooded over the house- 
hold. The merry laugh, the bounding step were heard no 
more. The grapes hung withering on the vines ; the ap- 
ples fell unheeded to the ground ; the flowers faded away, 
ungathered and forgotten ; the yellow leaves of autumn fell 
faster and faster on the green grass that carpeted the yard, 
but no hand swept them away. Mrs. Worth moved about 
once more in the midst of her domestic duties, 

“ But oh ! with such a freezing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek — 

Love — love of mortal agony — 

Thou, only thou canst speak.” 

She hac not yet shed one tear. The fountains of sorrow 
seemed frozen in her bosom. It was not till the traveller’s 
*runks iSrrived, which he had packed with his own hands 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. lUl 

preparatory to his homeward journey, that the dry agon'*^ 'f 
grief found relief in tears. There were all the little memo- 
rials of love, which the absent one had collected for those 
who waited his return. Packets carefully folded, and bear- 
ing the loved names on the envelope. There was the bag 
of calico pieces, and Estelle’s little kitten deposited in a 
comer of the trunk, and beneath the kitten a beautiful snuif- 
box. At sight of this proof of remembrance and kimlness, 
even Aunt Patty wept aloud. Mrs. Worth turned froiii the 
gifts which had been selected wuth a refined regard to her 
peculiar tastes and character, to clasp to her bosom the gar- 
ments he had worn, to cover them with her kisses and her 
tears. The sorrow so long imprisoned in her aching heart, 
now found impassioned utterance. She gathered her chil- 
dren alternately in her arms, and embraced them again arid 
again, as if she feared they were to be torn from her by 
violence. 

“ Oh, my beloved ones !” cried she, “ ye are orphans — 
sad, desolate orphans. He, who was my guide and my 
strength, as well as yours, is taken from us, to return no 
more for ever. Our once happy home is as a grave to us — 
the w’orld nothing but a wilderness. Oh ! that his grave 
were mine. He is gone ; and with him life, joy, and hope.” 

“ We are left, mother,” said Edmund, in half- reproach- 
ful accents, “we are left to love, cherish, and protect you.” 

“ Protect !” repeated Homer, looking darkly at Edmund ; 
“ to protect my mother is my right, and I will yield it to no 
one.” 

“ God is left, dear mother,” said Emma, softly, lifting up- 
wards her meek, religious-beaming eyes, “ he wull never 
leave nor forsake thee. He will protect us all.” 

Homer turned aside, and dashed a tear from his haughty 
eye. He felt the pious rebuke of his gentle sister, and the 
accusing spirit was aroused in his bosom. 

“Father of mercies !” exclaimed Mrs. Worth, bowing her 
head upon her hands, in the humility of a chastened and 
broken spirit, “ forgive my imp ous murmurs, and give me 
strength to live for my children.” 

The w'idow’s prayer was heard. Let it be supposed that 
several years have glided by, and see what changes they 
have marked in the family, which we have introduced in 
the bloom of childhood and adolescence. 


192 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


CHAP TER VI. 

After a lapse of three years, we will pr39-*nt another fa 
mily picture to the eye of the reader, if it has not become 
weary of gazing at the last. Mrs. Worth te seated by the 
glowing fireside of a New England winter, whose warmth 
reflects a colour on her now pallid cheek. The sable dress,, 
the thoughtful brow, the mild yet serious eye, proclaim that 
widowhood of the heart which time cannot change. Stand- 
ing by her side, and leaning against the mantel-piece, is a 
tall, commanding looking youth, with dark, gloomy brow, 
and eyes of intense lustre. ’Tis Homer, by that gloomy 
brow, and those peculiar, beaming eyes. With his father’s 
lofty stature, and unusual dignity of mien, he. retains his 
own striking, misanthropic face — a face that exhibits only ton 
faithfully the dark workings of bis soul. His brother stands 
on the opposite side, less tall, less stately, but wearing, even 
in a more remarkable degree, that air of princely grace 
which distinguished his early boyhood. His hair and eyes 
are darkened ; and were a painter to seek for a personifica- 
tion of that age when youth and manhood seem at strife,, 
he could not rest upon a more engaging figure than that of 
Edmund Worth. 

The brothers now meet at the maternal fireside. It is the 
college vacation, and consequently a holiday at the home- 
stead. But where is the pale, spiritual-looking Emma, and 
the fair, sunny-tressed Bessy ? Has death again entered 
the domestic circle and destroyed the sweet blossoms of 
childhood, as well as the strength and hopes of man ? No, 
Emma, in pursuance of the advice of their physician, has 
accepted the invitation of a southern relative, and is passing 
*he winter in a more genial clime ; and Bessy is at length 
ealizing some of the dreams of her ardent imagination in 
the gay home of Laura Wharton. It is the first time she has 
yielded to the pressing entreaties of her friends, who, instead 
of releasing her during her brothers’ vacation, insist upon 
their meeting her under their own roof, to. enjoy the festi- 
vities of the Christmas holidays. 

Aunt Patty still occupies her usual corner ; and Estelle ifr 


AT7NT patty’s SCRAP-BAG. 193 

faithful to her first-love, though the outline of her chubby 
face is softened, and has assumed a more intellecluai cha- 
racter. Aunt Patty is still her oracle — the recipient of all 
her childish joys and sorrows. 

But who is that dark-haired girl, seated at the table, ply- 
ing her needle with such grace and dexterity, yet ever and 
anon lifting up from her work eyes of such flashing bright- 
ness, they almost startle the beholder ? Do you remember 
Victorine, whose tangled locks, and gipsy- looking face, and 
dingy flowered robe, were the admiration of the mocking 
Frank ? Her mother, the queen of slovens, is no more, 
quietly reposing in congenial dust. Monsieur Le Grand is 
returned to his native France, and Victorine, the orphan and 
the heiress, is under the guardianship of Mrs. Worth, whom 
she loves with a devotion that defies the power of language 
to express. Something of unusual interest seems to occupy 
the minds of all present. Victorine has dropped her work 
in her lap, and gazes on Edmund with an earnest, inquiring 
expression, while Homer’s eyes are fixed on her, as if un- 
conscious of the object on which they rest. Mrs. Worth 
looks down in deep revolving thought ; and silence seems to 
have folded her wing’s by that glowing fireside. 

“ I will not go, mother,” at length said Edmund, “ if it 
pains you too much to give consent. Mr. Selwyn would 
not ask too great a sacrifice of you.” 

“I do not wish to consult my own feelings at all,” re- 
plied Mrs. Worth, “ but your advantage. The offer is so 
generous, so unexpected, it involves so many dependencies, 
I hardly know what to say — I tremble at the idea of seeing 
a loved one depart to a distant land.” The moistened eye 
and quivering lips spoke eloquently of the past. 

“ I will not go, dear mother, if it makes you unhappy,” 
repeated Edmund, seating himself by her side. “ I would 
forego every advantage and crush every ambitious hope, 
rather than make you a prey to anxiety. Mr. Selwyn will 
be here to-nigh. — decide for me to him.” 

“ Will you resign the certai ity of the first honours of the 
university?” asked Homer. “ Who will wear your laurels, 
if you relinquish them ?” 

“I will bequeath them to you, brother,” replied Ed- 
mund, smiling; “if you an not already burdmed with 
the weight of your own.” 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


194 

“ I w"ill win my own laurels, or never wear them,* r© 
plied Homer coldly. “ I am content to be second to Ed- 
mund in every thing, or rather I ought to be, since nature 
has willed it so.*’ 

“ Neither nature, nor justice, nor affection has willed 
it,” cried Edmund warmly. “ You deserve a higher rank 
than myself, and nothing but modesty and self-distrust pre- 
vent you from being aware of it. I feel more proud of 
your reputation, than I do of my own, Homer.” 

“ I believe you, on my soul I do,” cried Homer, with 
one of those sudden bursts of feeling which sometimes 
illuminated his dark countenance ; “ but I am not the less 
wretched on that account.” 

“ Believe me, once again, dear Homer,” cried Edmund, 
earnestly grasping his hand, “ when I tell you, that it is 
unjust, and ungrateful, and unwise, to let such feelings as 
you indulge destroy your own happiness and that of your 
friends. If I do accept Mr. Selwyn’s offer, one of my 
strong motives is, to remove from your path one whose 
fancied excellence makes you degrade yourself in your own 
estimation.” The youth spoke with energy, and his 
father’s spirit looked forth from his eyes. Every good and 
noble feeling in Homer’s breast was touched. He felt the 
moral superiority of Edmund, and writhed under the con- 
sciousness of that jealousy which withered his heart’s best 
affections. How mean, selfish, and cold seemed his cha- 
racter in his own eyes ! How base and criminal the master- 
passion, whose vassal he had become ! It was this which 
had embittered his father’s parting hour, ciouded the bright 
prospects of his brother’s youth, and saddened the home of 
his widowed mother. The remembrance of man’s first 
brotherhood was ever before him — severed by sin, crimsoned 
by blood, branded by a curse, pursued by suffering, exile, 
and shame. A new feeling, scarcely acknowledged to 
himself, and partaking of the intensity, the bitterness, and 
the gloom of his character, was now taking possession of hia 
opening manhood. 

Mr. Selwyn was announced ; Mrs. Worth turned pale at 
his entrance. The moment I n decision was come, and her 
heart throbbed, incapable of calmness. He had been the 
warm friend of her husband, w'as a man high in public 
confidence, just returned from foreign lands, where he had 


AUNT PAirv’s SCRAP-BAG. 195 

been officiatyng in some 3levated national station, am’ was 
on the eve of departure for Europe, where he expected to 
remain for three years. He was very rich, a widower 
without children, and the friends of Edmund believed that 
the partiality he now manifested for him would eventuate 
in making him his heir. They warmly urged him to ac- 
cept his generous offer. 

“ Trust him with me, madam,” said he, when he again 
renewed his proposal, “and you never shall repent the 
confidence reposed ; I will adopt him as my own son, and 
he shall have every advantage that wealth and opportunity 
can afford. Constantly engaged in public life, I have had 
but little leisure to feel the loneliness of a childless heort. 
Nor was it till I saw your son, that I knew of what strong 
unappeasable yearnings that heart is capable. Trust him 
with me, madam, and, as far as possible, I will make uj> 
to him what he has lost in his inestimable father.” 

Mrs. Worth wept as much from gratitude as memory. 
She looked at Edmund, and read his wishes in his kindling 
eyes. Could she be so selfish as to suffer her njaternal ten- 
derness to interfere with the brilliant prospects of her son ? 
Ought she not rather to be proud of such a complifnent to 
his talents, graces, and virtues ? The God who had de- 
prived him of the best of lathers, had raised him up a pow- 
erful friend in this great and good man. Then Homer, too. 
her strange, wayward first-born, — perhaps the flame of 
fraternal jealousy would die away in his bosom, unfed by 
the presence of its object. She thought of the Hebrew 
mother, who committed her boy to the waves, in the confi- 
dence of the God of Israel, and how this same feeble child 
became the lawgiver of the Jewish nation and the chosen 
friend of the great I AM. Perhaps a glorious destiny 
awaited her son. She hesitated no longer. But that night,, 
long after every eye was closed in sleep, she sat by her 
lonely hearth and dwelt on the sacrifice she was about to 
make. To live three years uncheered by the sunshine of 
his smile ! How long in prospective seemed those weary 
years ! and yet three long years were passed, since, in the 
agony of a crushed and broken heart, she prayed for strength 
to live for her children. Prostrate on her knees, she re- 
newed that prayer of faith. “O my Father,” cried she,, 
“ thou hast permitted me to live for them, but let me not 


196 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


ask that they may live for me. Let me comioit their, into 
thy hands. Do with them whatsoever seemeth go3d in 
thy sight.” 

When she rose from her knees, she found herself directly 
opposite the portrait of her husband, and the features, soft- 
ened by the pale lamp-light, seemed to smile sadly dowr 
upon her. That picture, since his death, had been removed 
to the sacred retirement of her own chamber. There it met 
her first waking, her last closing glance. There its deep, still 
eyes ever followed hers, triumphing in their pictured rays, 
over the mists and shadows of the tomb. It was a perfect 
likeness ; the canvas lived, breathed, spoke — death was 
cheated of his prey. 

Every thought was now merged in the absorbing one of 
Edmund’s departure. Aunt Patty, whose ruling passion 
had lost none of its strength, expected samples of all the 
royal robes on the other side of the Atlantic. Yet after 
having made the request, she recollected that it must be a 
bad sign, as she had given a bag to Mr. Worth and it came 
only as a sad memento of his death ; she told Edmund he 
might bring them of his own accord, but she would not ask 
for them. Neither would she allow Estelle or Victorine to 
give him any parting gifts of affection, as they were hence- 
forth bad signs, in her opinion. But Victorine plied her 
unwearied fingers to assist Mrs. Worth, and seemed to 
supply both Emma’s and Bessy’s place. Edmund was to 
pass through Boston and meet Bessy there, but Emma was 
too remote in her southern home, to know of the change 
in her brother’s destiny. She was gathering health, and 
strength, in the land of the “ dew-dropping south,” and her 
mother would not hasten her return. 

“You would do any thing in the world for Edmund,” 
said Homer to Victorine, as he sat watching her, while she 
marked his initials on a packet of linen. “You do not 
mean that he should forget you.” 

“I hope not, indeed,” replied she quickly, “for I am 
sure I never shall forget him. What shall we do without 
him ? He is the life and joy of the whole house. I be- 
lieve I shall sit down and take snuff with Aunt Patty, and look 
over all the scraps she has gathered since the world began. 
I shall have no one to talk with when he is gone, for I can- 
aot think of intruding my folly on your dear, sad mother.” 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


“Is jppose you will not condescend to talk with me,” 
•aid Homer, drawing his chair back as he spoke. “ I know 
I have nothing light or amusing to say, but I should think 
a sensible person might like sometimes grave things.” 

“ Oh ! I should like to talk to you of all things,” cried 
Victorine, laughing ; “ but you have such a terrific counte- 
nance, and look so grand and lofty, you frighten every idea 
out of my head. Now, Homer, don’t be angry, but you 
are exactly like Lara, whose description Edmund read last 
evening. Don’t you recollect it ? 

“ ‘ He stood, a stranger in this breathing world, 

An erring spirit from another world, — 

^ A thing of dark imaginings,’ &c. 

Such beings do splendidly in poetry, but they won’t 
pass in every-day life.” . 

Victorine had all the French vivacity of manner and 
grace of motion, which was conspicuous in her in child- 
hood, when slovenliness obscured her personal beauty. 
She was the only one in the household who dared to jest 
with Homer. Every one else stood in awe of the young 
misanthropist ; even his mother, fearing to wound his too 
sensitive nature, never ventured to treat with levity his 
gloomy paroxysms. Victorine, alone, like the harmless 
lightning playing over the thunder-cloud, gilding its dark 
edges with the flame of youthful wit and merriment. 

“ The Ethiopian cannot change his skin, nor the leopard 
his spots,” said Homer, a transient smile most beautifully 
illuminating his countenance ; “ neither can I smile like 
Edmund.” 

“ Oh ! if you knew how a smile became you,” interrupted 
she, “ you would not make them so rare. It is like noon 
breaking on midnight, — there, don’t frown again, for I 
didn’t say that to please you, but for the sake of a metaphor. 
I don’t care, Homer, whether you smile or frown: I’ll 
laugh when you’re angry, and smile when you smile ; but, 
were you in real sorrow, I would pity you, and weep with 
you to your heart’s content.” 

“ I’ii tell you, Victorine, why I so seldom smile,” replied 
he : “ it is because no one loves me. From my first re- 
membrance of feeling, I had a consciousness of something 
•ibout me cold and repelling. I felt that I could not inspire 
13 


198 


AUNT patty's scrap- bag. 


sympathy or love, and I was too proud to seek, as a favour, 
what was denied me as a right.” 

“I thought you cared not to be loved.” said Victorine, 
more seriously than she had hitherto spoken. “ I thought 
you disdained the very ideu of being loved, even by your 
own sisters.” 

“I!” repeated he, vehemently. “I would walk over 
burning ploughshares, endure the tortures of the rack and 
wheel ; I would bear ail the agonies that man can inflict or 
feel, for even the hope to be loved as Edmund is. / care 
not to be loved! The dread, the fear, the certainty of never 
having been, of never being loved, is the secret of my 
misanthropy and despair. I would willingly die to-morrow, 
to be drawn, even this day, as near to the heart of one 
human being as Edmund is.” 

“ Strange !” said Victorine to herself, as Homer, ashamed 
of the vehemence of his emotion, abruptly left the room. 
“ Strange ! that his heart should seem to be filled with 
hatred, when it is only yearning after love. I thought he 
was wrapped scornfully up in himself, and disdained all 
mankind. Well ! I am sure we will all love him, if he 
will let us.” 

Victorine, domesticated as a child with the two brothers, 
looked upon them both with feelings similar to a sister, and 
addressed them with the freedom of one of an exceedingly 
ardent temperament ; she suffered her affections to flow out 
bounteously on every object which excited their interest. 
She had once loved her cats and dogs to idolatry : but now 
her more refined taste and cultivated understanding re- 
volted from the thought of bestowing upon them the 
caresses due only to human beings. She had loved hex 
mother, and mourned her loss ; but Mrs. Worth seemed to 
her an angel of light, moving in a purer and holier atmo- 
sphere, and to diffuse on every object around her a spirit of 
purity and holiness. Much was said, when this wfild, 
neglected, but singularly accomplished child was received 
into her family ; and some even dared to attribute the kind- 
ness to mercenary motives, knowing the reputed wealth of 
the girl. “Ske can never get the tangles from her hair,” 
said one. Victorine’s hair was now remarkable for its 
glossy wave*. “Her skin will neve* become fair. ’ said 
another. Viu^yrine’s complexion was now that of a pure. 


AUNT patty’s scrap- bag. 199 

clear, delicate brunette. • She will never leain to dress 
like a lady,” cried a third. Victorine was now proverbial 
for her maidenly neatness and taste in dress. People said 
Mrs. Worth had wroug-h. a miracle, but it was only a 
miracle of love. Perhaps Victorine herself was destined 
to work one as astonishing and as unhoped for. 

It was a sad hour for Edmund, when he bade adieu to 
his mother; but as one parting has been described, this 
shall be omitted in the family sketch. Aunt Patty would 
not suffer an eye to follow him as he passed over the 
threshold : but when she recollected that it was Friday, bad 
Friday, that ill-omened day, her superstitious fears became 
so dark, they infected the whole household. It was tho 
day Mr. Seiwyn had appointed; his business would not ad- 
mit of delay, and he was not a man to whom one would 
avow such apprehensions. 

The travellers stopped at Mrs. Wharton’s, that Edmund 
might bid farewell to his sister Bessy. It was their resting- 
place for the night, and we cannot resist the temptation of 
introducing another family picture. The years which had 
added dignity and height to Homer and Edmund, had not 
gone by without many a fair gift to the inmates of this 
household, not excluding their young guest, the blue-eyed 
Bessy. Frank was a tail, handsome, gay, rather dashing 
collegian, full of fun and frolic, and reckless good-nature ; 
and Laura a fair, fashionable-looking maiden, dressed rather 
beyond her years, but with exquisite taste, and perfectly au 
fai^ in all the courtesies and graces of society. But Bessy 
was the most beautiful, blooming, poetic- looking creature, 
that ever adorned the prose realities of life: — ^^beautiful as 
the dreams of her own bright fancy, and surely nothing 
could go beyond it. Have you ever seen a picture with a 
kind of soft shadow floating over it, — a mist, as it w’ere, re- 
posing on its depth of light and shade ? — so it was with 
Bessy’s face. It was brilliant from the clearness and 
transparency of its colouring; pensive, from the softness 
and exquisite delicacy of lineament and expression. And 
her hair still curled, and rippled, and sported round her 
brow and about her neck in the unshorn, unfettered free- 
dom of her infantine beauty. Bessy knew that she was 
beautiful, for flattering tongues, fond, gazing eyes, and 
faithful mirrors had too often rep'*ated this truth. But th» 


200 AUNT patty's scrap-bag, 

consciousness of beauty did not, as is frequentlj* the case, 
inspire gayety in her. She had an image of ideal beauty 
in her soul, so much brighter and purer, that she yearned 
after its realization with unutterable longings. She had 
witnessed the scenes which Laura described so glowingly, 
and they all seemed cold and artificial, devoid of intellectual 
hfe. The conversation which she heard sounded so vapid; 
false, and senseless, she could not be interested in it. She 
was afraid to express herself with that fervour and beauty 
of language peculiar to her, lest she should be thought 
extravagant and affected ; so, with a treasury of rich, burn- 
ing, glorious thoughts within, she generally sat silent and 
abstracted, pensive, and sometimes even sad. Her silence 
was imputed to youth and timidity. No one imagined 
what a peopled world of her own she weis inhabiting. No 
one dreamed of the depth of feeling, the fire of imagination, 
and the power of intellect imbodied in that cherubic form. 

“ How beautiful is your sister Bessy !” exclaimed Mr. 
Selwyn. “ I have not seen her since she was a little child. 
I wish it were possible to take her with us : she should 
have superior advantages. I have seen much of the world, 
and the beauties of different climes, but never have beheld 
so lovely a countenance. If she were my daughter, I 
would be proud to present her at all the courts of Europe.” 

The unconscious Bessy at this moment approached, and 
put her arm lovingly in her brother’s. 

“ What do you think Mr. Selwyn is saying of you ?” 
said Edmund. “ He wishes you could go to Europe with 
us. How would you like to travel on classic ground, to 
see the 

‘ Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece, 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung?’ ” 

The colour on Bessy’s cheeks deepened to crimson. 

“ Oh ! brother, can I go ? Is Mr. Selwyn serious ? To 
Europe ! to Italy, to the land of love and song ! — Ah ! I 
see you are sporting with my enthusiasm, by the smile on 
Mr. Selwyn’s lips.” 

“ If I had a female friend of sufficient age and standing, 
to be your protectress, and whom I could ask to accompany 
us, you should go,” replied Mr. Sdwyn. “But Edmund 
shall take you across the Atlantic yet, if your classic 
thusiasm does not grow cool as your heart expands ” 


AUNT patty’s SCRAP-SAe. 201 

“ 1 thought the heart had an expansive power,” answered 
Bessy, smiling. 

“The enthusiasm of the head and the warmth of the 
heart are different, as you will one day experience ; bui 
not, I trust, before we return ; for if the heart should twine 
itselt round some new support, it would cli^g so tightly, 
the wings of enthusiasm would flutter in vain to bear you 
away.” 

“ There is no danger of my heart clinging more closely 
around any one than Edmu.id ’ replied Bessy; “and one 
of these days he is to build me a small Grecian temple, and 
adorn it with statuary and paintings, and shade it ‘ with 
bonny-spreading bushes,’ and then we are to live together 
the happiest brother and sister in the world. Homer and 
Emma are to dwell in some baronial castle, lonely, grand, 
and inaccessible ; where the walls are mouldy w'ith the 
damps of ages, and the midnight shadows are peopled with 
apparitions.” 

“A few years hence,” said Mr. Selwyn, “your castles 
in the air will be made of very different materials.” And 
as he looked upon those two charming beings, thus linked 
together by the ties of affection, the strongest, the fondest 
they yet had known, he sighed to think what bitter lessons 
life might have in store for them, when they learned the 
strength of that love which is the over-mastering passion 
of the human heart. 

“ What are you talking about ? Grecian temples and 
baronial castles !” said Frank, who, with Laura, now 
joined the trio. “ I have no idea of these exclusives ; and 
whether you live in temple, castle, cottage, or cabin, I 
shall be certain to squeeze in as priest, warder, gardener, 
or \vood-cutter.” 

“ Oh ! you would spoil all Bessy’s poetry and sentiment,” 
said Edmund, laughing. “You are too much of the earth, 
earthy ; you could not live on nectar and ambrosia ; and 
Bessy will have no grosser viands at her table.” 

“ Now Bessy and I are the very persons to live to- 
gether,” said Frank ; “as I am earthy, I should bring her 
down from the skies occasionally, to hold communion with 
me ; and she, being of heaven, heavenly, would draw me 
after her : so the two forces, constantly acting, would pro 
duce at last the right e^^uilibrium.” 


302 AUNT patty's scrap-bag. 

[ thought Victorine was your heroine/^ cried Laura , 
you admired her so much in her beautiful flowered dresi 
and fancy hair, as you called it — they say she is quite be- 
witching now/^ 

I will leave Victorine for Homer. He is grand, 
gloomy, and peculiar; and she bright, sparkling and gay. 
There should always be a contrast, to produce that delight- 
ful equilibrium I was speaking of just now.” 

“Who will contrast with me, brother?” asked Laura. 
“ You have entirely slights me.” 

“ There is no one left for you but Edmund, and he is 
entirely too perfect to contrast with any one, unless it is the 
witch of Endor herself. 1 don’t know you yet, Laura, but I 
Oelieve you have more character than we dream of; you 
are trying hard to be a fine lady, but you are meant for 
something better or worse, after all ; upon the whole, you 
and Edmund would do admirably together : as for Homer, 
he is the hero of the drama, the Corsair, the Paul Clifford, 
the Charles de Moor, for whom half a dozen maidens may 
yet die.” 

“ And what will you do for poor Emma ?” said Bessy, 
amused at Frank’s arrangements for the future. “There 
is no one good. enough for Emma.” 

“ Emma !” repeated Frank,^ “ Oh ! I forgot Emma — 
though she is so young, she is so thoughtful and pious, she 
always seemed to me like old folks. I’ll give her to Mr. 
Selwyn, for I remember her saying one day, he was the 
handsomest man she ever saw, except her father.” 

Mr. Selwyn blushed at the compliment,- but looked 
kindly on the bold, gay youth, who dared to utter it. He 
said he intended to have a patriarchal establishment, and 
when they were all married, they should come and live 
with him, and he hoped to see their children’s children 
even unto the_ third -and fourth generation. He pondered 
Frank’s sayings in his heart. “Let us see a few years 
hence,” thought he, “whether he has spoken in the spirit 
of prophecy. These girls ind boys will then be men and 
women, and these words of jest may be remembered as tha 
sb idowing forth of their future destiny.” 


AUNT patty’s SCRAP-BAfi. 


203 


CHAPTER \Tl. 

Shall we look over Bessy’s shoulder, while she reads 
letter from Emma, dated about the time when Edmund, 
unknown to her, began his transatlantic tour? We would 
like to see her impressions of a southern life, as contrasted 
with her northern home. 

Dear Bessy : — I can scarcely realize that I am address- 
ing you, in the very depth of winter, for gales soft as sum- 
mer are fanning my cheek. To be sure, there is a bright 
fire glowing in the chimney, but the doors and windows are 
ail open ; and Mrs. Woodvilie, or Aunt Woodville, is sew- 
ing in the piazza ; I can imagine you all gathered round 
the blazing hearth, shivering if the door is accidentally left 
ajar, with your listed windows and doors, your banks of 
tan round the walls of the house, your deep white paths 
through the drifted snow, and all the chill paraphernalia 
of winter. We have the music of sweet singing birds, you 
the jingling of the merry-going bells. There are beautiful 
roses blooming in the garden, such as we cherish at home 
as rare exotics, protecting them from every breath* of 
winter. Oh ! Bessy, you need not wonder that I feel like a 
new being, when such frail, delicate things as flowers 
bloom fearless and unharmed by frost or cold. My breath 
no longer labours in my bosom ; it comes and goes without 
my knowing it, and my heart no longer throbs Avearily 
against my aching side ; Aunt Woodville is very kind to 
me ; she sends me out every morning to ride before break- 
fast, on a little pony, accompanied by Uncle Jack, as my 
gallant. You must know I have as many uncles and 
aunts as there are negroes on the plantation, and I have 
already become so much attached to them, I am very will- 
ing to give them that endearing title. They will do any 
thing in the world for Miss Emma, ‘ bless her little heart, 
they say. You know the prejudices I had against negroes, 
before I came, but I find them so kind and pleasant, I fear I 
shall like them better than our own white servants. Aunt 
Charity is just coming up the steps, with a bucket of cold 


204 


AUNT patty’s s:rap-bag. 


water, balanced on her head, her right hand touching 
edge of the pul, her left resting on her hip. You cannot 
think what a picturesque and griceful attitude this is, and 
could you see half a dozen of them walking from the spring 
bearing in this manner their brimming buckets, you would 
be convinced that labour did not necessarily bow the figure 
and deprive it of all grace of motion. I used to think rich 
outhern planters had nothing to do, with so many slaves te 
wait upon them, but I am sure my dear mother would 
think it a weary task if she had to carry about a big bunch 
of keys, like Aunt Woodville, and keep so many people at 
work about her. Her house is as neat as wax, and I could 
not use a better comparison, for her summer parlour and 
bedroom have waxed floors, which shine so that you may 
see your face in them, and they are so smooth that there is 
great danger of your sliding down. In the large hall, there 
is a little shelf where a bucket of cool water always stands, 
an object of perfect admiration to me. The wood is as 
white as snow, and it is hooped with burnished brass, and 
ihere is a dipper in it, made of the cocoa-nut shell, riiamed 
with silver. This is a trifling thing to mention, but* it seems 
to me more characteristic of the south than any thing else. 
I will relate one anecdote for Estelle’s amusement. We 
have a little black girl here of the name of Sukey, who 
waits particularly on me. The other day I asked her how 
long it would be before supper was ready, as I wanted to 
take a walk. ‘Oh!’ said she, ‘i4 will be a good little 
heap of a piece of a while.’ But this is not my anecdote : 
one evening soon after my arrival, as I was sadly wander- 
ing about in the yard, I heard Aunt Charity calling in the 
most mournful accents on the name of Sukey — again and 
.again she repeated the sound. ‘Is Sukey lost,’ said I, 
.beginning to be anxious for my little waiting^maid. ‘No! 
T hope not,’ said she, ‘ I always calls ’um home, at night.’ 
‘Does she go away so far every right?’ said I ; ‘I should 
think she was too small; I wonder Aunt Woodville lets 
her.’ Here Aunt Charity showed her white teeth from ea! 
vto ear. ‘ Oh ! Miss Emma, you are so funny — some of ’um 
.iittle, some of ’um big ; misses don’t worry herself about 
■•um.’ I did not quite understand Aunt Charity, but hear- 
ing her continue to invoke Sukey so mournfully, I offered 
*0 go with her in search of the lost child. Aunt Charity 


AUNT PATTY’S SCRAP-BAG. 205 

Stared at me a moment, then held tight by the fence and' 
laughed and sh^ok, as only a negro can laugh and shake. 
‘It’s the cows, Miss Emma — the cows — we all calls ’em 
Sukey.’ Uncle Woodville was so much amused at mv 
mistake, that he has called me Sukey ever since. 

“ Dearest Bessy, — The sweet briar enclosed in this letter 
was plucked from my father’s grave. I have enclosed a 
sprig to my mother, as the most sacred — the most precious 
of all earthly mementoes. Every evening, when it does not 
rain, I walk to this hallowed spot, and I feel as if your spirits 
were all hovering near me, to hold communion with the saint- 
ed dead. When I first saw that grave, I thought my heart 
would break. I threw myself on the cold clay, and clung to 
it, as if it were the sacred body of our father, given back to 
my arms. I called upon his name, but the sighing of the 
long grass alone sounded in my ears ; the chill of the damp 
earth penetrated to my very soul, and I remembered the 
warm breast where I had once pillowed my head, and the 
contrast was agony. When I arose and looked up, the set- 
ting sun shed such a mild light on the shadows of that 
mournful place, I felt that the world was not all darkness; 

1 recollected that beautiful passage of scripture ; ‘ And the 
sun of righteousness shall arise with healing in his beams, 

I no longer thought of my father as mouldering beneath the 
clods of the valley, but as an angel in heaven, more glorious 
than the sun, yet ever becoming more and more glorious. 
Many a time, dear Bessy, when I went to kneel by that 
grave of our father, I thought I should soon sleep coldly 
and (juietly by his dear side ; and all unconscious as he there 
lies, It seemed to me, that it would be a comfort to him, to 
have his ‘young moralist’ reposing so near him. Oh! 
how many dark and sweet thoughts were blended in my 
mind. I wanted, if I died, to be buried in the same coffin, 
to be wrapped in the same winding-sheet ; and then, when 
the last trumpet should sound, the arms of my father would 
enfold me, and bear me tenderly to the mercy-seat of my 
Saviour and my God. Do not let mother see this part of 
my letter, for i fear it would make her sad ; I would only 
bring to her the sweetest and holiest memories ; I would 
tell her how lovely the pale rose of winter blooms on the 
soil that covers his ashes ; how, like a celestial ministrant. 
the moon comes down, and covers it with a silver pall, ana 


AUNT patty SCRAP-BAG. 


makss the place of graves beautiful as the gate of heaven 
I would till her, how every one here worships his memory i 
how the tongue of the African, as well as the white man, 
grows eloquent in his praise. How I wish they could see 
Edmund, or you, Bessy ; I am such a poor, frail creature, 
',he only feeling I can excite is compassion, yet I am daily 
stronger and better ; they tell me I am getting rosy ; you 
know with what reluctance I left home, and what a poor 
return I made for Uncle Woodville’s kindness, who came 
so much out of his way, to induce me to accompany him 
back from the north. He had heard our dear father 
speak so tenderly of his invalid daughter, and of his wish 
that she should breathe the soft gales of the south ; the 
good man sought me out and w'ould not be denied. Surely 
a kind Providence directed his steps ; for the sickly plant 
has indeed revived, and rejoices in the sunshine and the 
dew. I am writing you a long letter, but so many things 
crowd for expression, I cannot lay down my pen. I had a 
long letter from Homer last week. I cannot tell you how it 
affected me, it was very kind, but very melancholy ; he 
says, we mus* live together, for I understand him better 
tnan any one else, and am not so selfishly happy as the rest 
oi the world. Poor Homer ! if he only knew how well we 
all loved him, he would not make us so sad as he does. 
Tell Aunt Patty, that Aunt Woodville has collected a great 
many pieces of calico for her scrap-bag, and has told me 
so many pleasant incidents connected with them, I fear I 
cannot remember them all ; tell her, everybody here knows 
Aunt Patty and loves her too, for a certain somebody has 
talked a great deal about her ; and I have no doubt, she has 
felt her left ear burn very often — a sign, you know, that some 
one is praising her very hard. Dear little Estelle ! tell her 
she must water my geraniums, and move them where the 
sun shines warmest in the day, and the fire has difilised its 
heat at night. Oh I the sweet flowers of the south ! yet I. 
would give them all, even in their spring glory, for a 
glimpse of the snows that surround my northern home. 
One little circumstance, my beloved sister, I must not omit, 
though, if it affects you as it did me, this paper will be blot- 
ted with your tears. I was rambling in the woods that 
skirt the cultivated grounds, and stopped under a large 
beech, that hung over a narrow stream, or branch as it 'a 


AUNT patty’s scrap- bag. 207 

here called. There was a gray trunk fallen j ist at the foot 
of this noble tree ; I sat down and listened to the gurgling 
waters, when 1 caught a glimpse of letters engraved on the 
bark of the beech tree. First on the silver rind was the 
name of our beloved mother, then her children, from the 
first-born Homer, to little Estille. Ah! whose hand had 
carved these characters? who had sat, like me, on that 
gray fallen trunk, and though c of the dear ones left behind ? 
Where is the traveller now ? Where I perchance may soon 
be, and one of those loved ones, it may be my own Bessy, 
may wander to this spot, and sit under this spreading 
beech, and weep for me, as I have wept for him. I have 
touched a sad chord, but 1 did not intend it. This is such 
a place for memory, it is difficult to be cheerful and thought- 
ful at the same time ; yet you must not think of me as 
otherwise than happy. If I were not so, I should be the 
most ungrateful being in the world. Forgive my egotism •, 
I have written so much of myself, I am ashamed to look 
back. But of whom do you wish to hear, in this land of 
strangers, more than your own affectionate Emma.” 

We love family letters, and would gladly transcribe the 
correspondence of the brothers and sisters, during their se- 
paration from each other. But we fear others may not 
have congenial tastes, and would find them too unvarying 
and quiet, to satisfy that love of excitement which is fed by 
stirring incidents and unfolding passions. Edmund wrote 
volumes in his long epistles ; but the ground he travelled 
was classic, and every particle of dust on which he trod has 
been made sacred by the children of genius and of song. 
His pages would present nothing neAv to the reader, though 
they were read with rapture and enthusiasm by those to' 
whom they were addressed. Bessy was his particular cor- 
respondent ; and she now poured forth her soul in harmo- 
nious numbers, for she had discovered she had the gift of 
song. Her spirit, lib; the .^olian harp, responded in music 
to every breath that swept over it, and thrilled with trans- 
port at its wild melody. 

“ Charming child !” Mr. Selwyn would exclaim, when he 
perused these beautiful effusions of youthful genius ; “ she 
shall yet visit classic ground. She will be a Corinna, with- 
out her imperfections.” 

The tim* i of Edmund’s absence shortened by one 


208 AUNT patty's scrap-bag. 

year, in consequence of some new arrangements of Mr. Se! 
wyn, and it is astonishing how quickly two years glided by, 
bringing back the young traveller to his native soil. It was 
rather more than two years, however ; for when he left home 
it was in the depth of winter, and now it was in the full 
bloom of summer. As they approached the house in the 
hush of a moonlight evening, Edmund’s feelings became so 
intense, he would not bear that even Mr. Selwyn should 
witness the meeting. He was no longer a boy, yet he knew 
that he should give way :o boyish emotion, and, leaping 
from the carriage, he jumped over the garden railing, and 
opened a side gate, which brought him unobserved to the 
end of the piazza, where two couple sat in the moonlight, at 
some distance from each other. Edmund stood still a mo- 
ment, and contemplated these figures, with a throbbing 
heart. The two nearest him were immediately recognised 
— the dark brow of Homer was bent towards the upturned 
face of Victorine, whose brilliant eyes could never be mis- 
taken for another’s. She leaned back against a pillar, and 
the vine that encircled it drooped its dewy leaves on her 
sable hair. There was something exquisitely graceful in 
the abandonment of her attitude, and the contour of her head, 
defined on the green curtain-work behind. He was talking 
in a deep under-tone, and she was listening ; but her eyes 
wandered over the firmament, as if troubled by the burning 
gaze of his. 

“ He loves her,” thought Edmund ; “ two years have not 
passed away in vain for him. God bless thee, my brother, 
and not only fill thy heart with love for her, but for me, and 
ail mankind.” 

His eyes turned to the other pair, who sat side by side, at 
the other end of the piazza, equally absorbed by each other 
I’hat young female form could belong to no other than his 
sister Bessy. Such angel hair never adorned any other 
head but hers. And who was the young man that sat so 
near her, that the night gale, as it fanned them, blew her 
ringlets against his cheek, that evidently inclined to meet 
their soft caress ? 

Edmund felt a sudden pang, at sight of this stranger ad- 
mitted to such near communion with his beautiful sister. 
He had been exiled from his maternal home, a wanderer to 
various climes, but had brought back unchanged afifec- 


AUNT patty’s SCRAP-BAO. 209 

Hons, a heart in which fraternal love was still the ruling 
principle. He returned to find himself supplanted, as it 
were, in the bosom of others. Homer and Victorine, Bessy 
and the stranger, thus sat in the silence of that moonlight 
eve, as if the world contained no beings but themselves, and 
as if the moon revealed the secret of her glory alone for them 

“ Where is my mother and Emma?” thought Edmuna, 
catching the glimpse of a lamp, through the white curtains 
-of his mother’s window ; “ dear old Aunt Patty, and darling 
Estelle ?” He turned softly, and passing through a grove 
of lilac trees, entered a side door, which was left open, and 
stood at the entrance of his mother’s room. She sat at table 
reading. Letters were scattered around her which seemed 
to be his own, which she had been re-perusing. Time, as 
if charmed with her sweet, matronly graces, had touched 
her so gently, that he had .not left the slightest impress of 
his defacing fingers. It was very thoughtless — very impru- 
dent — but Edmund could not resist the temptation of stealing 
noiselessly behind her chair, and. clasping her in his arms 
before she was aware of his presence. The cry of joyful 
amazement that resounded through the house, brought all its 
inmates, but poor Aunt Patty, gathered together in Mrs. 
Worth’s apartment. Even the stranger hurried to the door, 
but drew respectfully back, as if conscious the scene should 
be sacred from intrusion. Emma and Estelle came flying 
down stairs in their loose white robes, which Edmund aiter- 
wards declared were the most becoming dresses they had 
ever worn. 

“ Oh ! Edmund, how tall you are grown !” “ How sun- 
ourned you are !” “ How well you look !” “ When did 

you come ?” ‘‘ And how did you get in ?” Such ejacula- 
tions were showered into his ears, while his hands w'ere 
:grasped by half a dozen pair of loving hands, and as many 
pair of arms tried to encircle his neck. 

“ Who would not cross the Atlantic for such a welcome 
home ?” cried he, in the midst of that soft prison of snowy 
arms. “ Emma, the south winds have blown kindly on you, 
they have given colour and health to your cheek. Ana 
Bessy” — he remembered the stranger in the piazza, and 
w^ked earnestly upon her. She blushed, and leaned her 
face on his shoulder. “ Do you love no one better than Eld 
iwund vet 


210 


AUNT patty’s SCRAP-BAi». 


“ Oh i no one in the world,” replied she hastily ; “ Jii'* 
grateful brother, to ask such a question, when my heart is 
aching from the very fulness of its joy and love !” 

“Don’t you want to see Aunt Patty, Edmund? Poor 
Aunt Patty !” asked Estelle, sadly. 

“ Aunt Patty !” repeated Edmund, starting. “ She is 
not dead ?” 

“ No cried Estelle ; “ but, she can’t walk any more, 
and has to stay in her own room all the time, and sit in a 
big arm-chair. Come and see her, Edmund ; she told me 
to bring you up.” 

Estelle led her brother up the winding stairs, to the 
chamber of Aunt Patty, while Emma and Bessy followed 
close behind. There sat Aunt Patty in the big arm-chair, 
a little table close beside her, on which lay her snuff-box, 
and spectacles, and a pile of books. Her head was drawn 
on one side, and her whole appearance spoke increased in- 
firmity. Edmund was so much grieved at this unexpected 
change, that he held her hand in silence, while she shook 
his as if she would never release her grasp, smiling and 
ejaculating, — “ How handsome you have grown ! How 
like a man you look ! As good as ever, I know ! Did you 
bring some pretty pieces for poor old Aunt Patty ? Estelle 
is making them into a fine bed-quilt for me, so there will be 
no danger of their getting lost. I can’t walk about any more, 
but I’ve so many feet to run for me, I hardly miss my own.” 

Edmund assured her that he had brought beautiful 
specimens of English and French silk and calico, and that 
he could tell her a great many anecdotes of ladies who 
wore similar dresses. In the morning he would unpack 
his trunk and display his collection of European curiosities. 
Estelle longed not ijrr^re impatiently for the morning’s dawn, 
than Aunt Patty, whose strange ruling passion seemed to 
gather strength as her physical powers declined. 

Mr. Selwyn’s arrival was hailed vvith a joy which, though 
less vehement, was as heartfelt as that which greeted the 
return of Edmund. They greeted him as a benefactor, 
friend, — almost as a father. Though he was certainly not 
a vain man, he could not help looking kindly at Emma, re- 
membering Frank’s parting jests. Emmc, whose affection 
for her father bordered on adoration, fell as if she could al- 
Aosi worship the man who ws« his -eaF r '^iend and as- 


AUNT TATT/^S scrap-bag. 2ii 

Mciale. His character, too, leas such as her serious and 
reflecting mind knew how to appreciate. Its philanthropy, 
its magnanimity, disinteres:edness, justice, loftiness, and 
piety, constituted her idea of a Christian gentleman. 
Bessy compared him to the oak, under whose shade the 
wayfaring man and the child find refreshment and rest ; 
but Emma thought the beautiful similitude of scripture, 
“The shadow of a great rock m a weary land,” more 
striking. She loved the book of God, and as naturally 
sought its divine metaphors as the panting hart the cooling 
stream. 

The stranger of the piazza was introduced by the name 
of Vivian. In spite of his efforts to prevent it, Edmund 
could not help bowing coldly to one who seemed to have 
come so near the heart of Bessy. Who was he ? Whence 
came he ? By what right was he domesticated in the 
family circle ? Estelle, who dearly loved to tell news 
and create surprises, answered all these questions without 
his asking one. “I have got something to show you,” 
whispered she, mysteriously. “ Come with me without 
letting Bessy see you, for that would spoil it all.” Gliding 
before him with a lamp carefully shaded by her hand, she 
conducted him to a little back-parlour, which his father had 
occupied as a study. The books still remained as he had 
last arranofed them, but every thing else was changed. 
The windows were darkened by green curtains, drawn 
closely, except one, through which the moon looked, as a 
celestial amateur, on one of the purest productions of human 
art. In the centre of the room stood an easel, sustaining a 
canvas, on which glowed the lineaments of an angel, a 
muse, or a grace, — ^just as the imagination of the gazer 
pleased to decide. The soft, blue eyes were turned up- 
wards with a kind of wistful, languishing expression, as if 
they yearned after the heavenly and unseen, finding nothing 
amidst the earthly and the seen to satisfy the cravings of 
the heart. The hair fell back, like a golden halo, around 
the calm, beauteous brow, melting away in the shadows of 
the back-ground ; the hands were clasped, as in the attitude 
of prayer, and gently raised above a circle of transparent, 
rose-tinted clouds, that rolled over the fore-ground, threaten- 
ing to veil the fair head with their gat ze-like folds. Edmund 
stood gazing so loi^ at this picture, that Estelle’s hand 


212 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

ftched from holding the lamp, and she quietly deposited it 
on the floor. Though Edmuni had not spoken one word, 
she knew that intense admiration closed his lips ; and there 
was something too sublime to her in his silence, for her to 
dare to break it. As the lamp-light receded, the moon’s 
rays fell gloriously upon it, and the shadow of the lattice 
was reflected on the face. “How beautiful!” at length 
exclaimed Edmund. “ How lovely ! What a perfect like- 
ness, — yet what an angel countenance ! Who is the artist T 
He should be immortal !” 

“ It’s Mr. Vivian,” said Estelle ; “ the gentleman you 
saw here just now. He was travelling, and saw Bessy at 
church, and wanted to make her picture to carry off to 
Italy. He’s painted one for himself, and this is for 
mother. He’s waiting to paint you too, for he heard 
mother say she would give all the world for your likeness, 
when you were gone. And we all want him to paint 
mother, and I want him to take Aunt Patty.” 

Estelle paused to take breath, and to watch the effect of 
her wonderful communications. Edmund still kept hia 
fascinated gaze on the illuminated canvas, thrilling under 
the magic spell of genius. 

“ Who and what is this young man ?” cried he again. 

“ It’s Mr. Vivian, I told you, brother,” repeated Estelle,, 
a little impatiently ; “ he’s going to paint me in Aunt 
Patty’s lap, holding her snuff-box ; and she’s to be sorting 
out pieces of calico. That big canvas there is for us.” 

“And what does he ask for all his pictures?” inquired 
Edmund. 

“I don’t know,” replied the little girl, thoughtfully, “but 
I heard him tell Bessy once she would pay him for all. 
That is not fair, is it, brother?” 

“ And what did Bessy say ?” 

“ I didn’t hear what she said, but she turned away her 
head as if she didn’t like it; I know I wouldn’t.” 

Edmund felt a soft arm twining round his, and looking 
down he saw the sweet original of the picture at his side. 

“ Is It hke me, brother?” 

“ Yes : but it makes my heart ache to look at that 
picture.” 

“ You don’t like it, thei .” 

‘ 1 could gaze on it for ever, — but — Estelle, my darling 


AUNT PATTY^S SCRAP-BAG. 213 

take back the lamp to the parlour, and we will follow you 
directly. The moon gives light enough for us.” 

Estelle took up the lamp, and walked slowly out of the 
room, feeling somewhat slighted after the pains she had 
taken to exhibit the portrait. Edmund drew his sister to 
the window, and once again repea;ed the earnest question, 
“ Who is this young man ?” 

“ He is an artist !” 

“ I know it, — and a glorious one ! What else ?” 

“ He is a poet ! He wribes divinely, as he paints.” 

“ And what else, my sister ? Forgive this inquisition.” 

“ He is a devoted son and affectionate brother,” answered 
Bessy, in a firmer tone. “ He supports a widowed mother 
and orphan sister by the works of his genius.” 

“ If so, I honour him. And yet he is willing to linger here 
for weeks, asking no other recompense than my sister’s heart.” 

“ Edmund !” 

There were tears in Bessy’s voice, as some beautiful 
writer has expressed it, and Edmund’s heart smote him 
with a sense of unkindness. 

“ I have been gone a long time, Bessy, and during my 
absence I have yearned after my sisters with undivided 
tenderness. I return and find a stranger occupying the 
place I left, and .supplanting me in the bosom of one, per- 
haps the best beloved, — I may be a little jealous and self- 
ish,— -but I am jealous for you also, and would not willingly 
yield my place to one who is not supremely worthy.” 

“Your place, Edmund, will never be yielded to another. 
But the heart must be very narrow, indeed, that has not 
room for any but brothers and sisters. It seems to me, the 
mor's one loves, the more one is capable of loving. I know 
but little by experience, but I believe the ocean’s waters 
can hardly be compared in breadth and depth to the love 
of the human heart.” 

“ One question more, dear Bessy ” 

“No, no, Edmund; no more questions to-night. Bu 
one thing, I pra} you, do not think less of Vivian, because 
he happened to imagine Bessy’s foolish face would look 
well on canvas, and wished to retain it as a specimen of his 
art ; or that he is willing to gi itify a fond mother’s feelings, 
by leaving her an image which may remind her of me 
when 1 have passed away, like a d-ream, as though I had 
14 


214 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

never been. Come, they wil’ be angry at my keeping yon 
here so long.” 

The brother and sister went out hand in hand, and Ed- 
mund felt, dearly as he had loved Bessy before, the interest 
he now felt for her was far deeper than ever. Vivian, the 
artist, the poet, the lover, became henceforth an attractive 
study ; and the more he studied, the less he wondered at 
the influence he had acquired over the ardent and imagina- 
tive Bessy. When they returned to the family circle, Mr. 
Selwyn came forward with Vivian, and again introduced 
him to Edmund as a young friend of his, whom he recog 
nised as having met in Italy, and of whose reputation, as 
an American, he was very proud. The tone of confidence 
and approbation in which Air. Selwyn spoke, was a volume 
of recommendation to Edmund, and his cold bow was ex- 
changed for a cordial pressure of the hand, and a glance 
of unrepressed admiration. The evening passed away, to 
use Bessy’s favourite expression, dke a fairy dream. 
There was something in Edmund’s manners that had the 
power of enchantment ; and his eyes, like the sun, glad- 
dened all that they shone upon. Even Homer’s cavern- 
like soul obeyed, this night, the magical open-sesame of his 
smile, and suffered some of its hidden diamonds and gems 
to glitter on the beholder. Alusic added its charm to the 
sweet socialities of the hour. Victorine’s piano, Edmund’s 
flute, and A^ivian’s violin made a most harmonious concert; 
and the soft, clear voices of the sisters chimed in, like an 
angel chorus. Victorine played, as she did every thing 
else, with all her heart and soul : her fingers flew over the 
keys with a rapid, lightning touch, wild and thrilling, or 
lingered, with a passionate depth of tone, that made the 
heart ache and sigh, from a consciousness of its own capa- 
bilities of love and sorrow. She was usually pale ; but 
when she played or sang, her cheeks crimsoned, and her 
lips glowed, as if a fire w 're kindled, and flaming within, 
Homer stood behind her c lair, gazing upon her image re 
fleeted in the mirror. Th? harp of the shepherd minstrel 
had no more power over tne evil spirit that possessed the 
first king of Israel, than the music of Victorine on Homer. 
If life Avere made of music, and Victorine was the minstrei, 
Homer would have been the most amiable of human beings. 
Edmund, whose light breath w'arbled through the flute. 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


215 


aiakiiig most ^a^’ishingf strains, contemplated the other 
musicians with unconscious interest; Homer and Victorine 
must now be inseparably connected in his thoughts ; she 
must be to him nothing more than a sister, as she had been 
in his more boyish years. He caught himself indulging 
in a transient feeling of envy, that Homer had inspired 
iOve in this fascinating and impassioned being, — leaving 
nothing but cold, calm friendship for him. Then he re- 
joiced that the fraternal jealousy which had so much 
embittered their life, would probably yield to the passion 
whose vassal he now was. He remembered the airy castles 
Bessy had built on the evening of his departure, — the 
Grecian temple, the statutes and pictures, — where were 
they now ? All vanished, and an altar fed with burning 
incense risen in its place. And Homer’s baronial castle, 
where Emma was to preside, with its raised drawbridge 
and deep moat ? — it was now transformed to a moon-light 
bower, where the aroma of flowers and the breath of music 
mingled together, and intoxicated the soul with love. He 
recollected Frank’s prediction with regard to himself : that 
could never be, — Laura was too artificial and vain ; she 
could no more fill the capacities his heart had for loving, 
than a shallow rill could fill the ocean’s bed : — he never 
should meet one who could. He would never marry, but 
give his talents to the world, his afiections to his mother 
and Emma, who would never marry, likewise, but be the 
sweetest and best old maid that ever lived ; and the young 
Estelle should be the darling of both. 

While Edmund thus builds up new castles on the ruins 
of the old, let us exercise our fair}' privilege of reading the 
thoughts of others, and see what Mr. Selwyn is thinking 
of, while he keeps time with his foot, to the changing music. 
He, too, remembered Bessy’s and Frank’s gay prophecies, 
and thought how seldom the dreams of youth were realized. 
“ This young artist,” mused he, “ is poor, but his genius 
will one day enrich him. If he loves Bessy, and is worthy 
of her, the want of wealth shall be no drawback to his 
success : I will help him on, but not make him too rich, 
lest the world lose the wonders of his art, and he the bless- 
ings of industry. The proud, reserved Homer! how ha 
han^s over that dark-eyed French girl, as if he would ex 
elude her from the gaze of all. T is a web of misery 


AUNT patty’s S< RAP'BAG. 


weaving between them. I hope she may not love him to« 
well, for he is incapable of domestic happiness. Good 
heavens ! what a glance he just cast on Edmund, because 
he chanced to be looking at Victorine. I foresee trouble on 
■every side, though every thing looks so bright and fair now 
I must take Edmund away with me again : he is destined 
for a lofty sphere ; my wealth, my influence, my best affec- 
lions are his ; he shall perpetuate his father’s name, not 
only untarnished, but brightened in fame. Noble, excellent 
boy ! I wish I had a daughter to bestow upon him, that he 
might indeed be my own son.” 

When the family separated for the night, Edmund 
lingered behind, that he might be a few moments alone 
with his brother. He longed for unreserved confidence, 
for an assurance that mutual trust and affection should 
henceforth exist between them. “Let me wish thee joy, 
brother,” said he, pressing both hands in his ; “ you have 
won the first collegiate honours ; you have adopted the pro* 
fession of our honoured father ; you love, and where you 
love are loved again. Homer, you must be happy now.” 

“ No, I never shall be happy ; I deserve not to be so ; I 
distrust myself and every human being ; I cannot help it. 
I’ve struggled with my nature, ever since I was a mere 
boy, struggled like a giant, but it is all in vain. Love with 
me is a madness^ and makes my misery, not my happiness. 
Edmund, this shall be an honest moment ; I will tell you 
all that is passing within me, and then you shall hate me, 
as you ought. Even this night, in the midst of the joy and 
rapture of welcome, which, I declare to you, I have shared 
most intensely, the dread that Victorine would love you 
better than myself has come over me, making ‘ the sweat- 
drops of agony moisten my brow.’ ” 

“ What can I do to prove, that I could not be a brother’s 
rival ? Homer, Victorine loves you ; and once loved, you 
must be loved for ever. I could not if I would be youi 
rival; but rather than inflict upon you, even imaginary 
suffering, I would return to-morrow to the shores of Europe, 
and become an alien from my country and home.” 

“ What ! and make my mother and sisters curse me ? 
No ! I was not born for society, and were I to go to some 
desert island and live like Robinson Crusoe, away from all 
mankind, I •l^ould on'y fulfil my destiny. The conscious- 


>CTNT patty’s scrap- bag. 


217 


-ness tliat I cast a gloom over ail around me, m&lces 
wretched, and yet I cannot change the nature which makes 
me gloomy, distrustful, jealois and misanthropic. Beat 
with me, if you can, Edmund, and pity me; for when I 
make others most unhappy, 1 am myself most misenible. 
You were born with a soul Df sunshine, and you cannot 
imagine nor dream of that inward strife and storm, which 
made me a sullen man, when a mere boy, and will change 
my young manhood into premature old age.” 

“Have you ever sought strength of God, Homer? You 
say I cannot dream of inward strife and storm ; but I have 
passions, strong passions ; and if I did not pray for strength 
to resist their power, I might soon be their slave. I be- 
lieve in God, and revere his commandments ; if I break 
them, I must incur the penalty of their violation. Do you 
believe me, when I say this ?” 

“ Believe you, Edmund !” 

“ Then hear me, Homer ! while in the name of that 
God, I swear, with ail the solemnity of an oath, that I will 
never willingly rival you in fame, fortune, or love ; I have 
no other security under heaven to give. Now let us be 
brothers indeed, — brothers in heart, as well as name. Let 
us be true to the memory of our father and the virtues of 
our mother, and the only rivaiships between us be in filial 
love and devotion.” 

Edmund stretched out his hand, but Homer hastily re- 
jected it, — and throwing his arms round his brother’s neck, 
leaned his head on his shoulder and wept. What ardent 
resolutions did he make for the future ! What self-renunci- 
ations ! What promises of amendment ! What confessions 
of wrong, and supplications for forgiveness ! But w'ho can 
say to the waves of human passion, “ Thus far shall thou 
go, and no further, and here shall thy proud waves be 
stayed?” Who shall say, when the tempest rises, “Peace, 
be still;” i>iho, but thtj Spirit of God ! 


218 


AUNT patty’s scrap- bag. 


CHAPFER VIII. 

Edmund's return vvarj as gnal for festive meetings in the 
neighbourhood and to^vn. Mrs. Worth’s family was so 
much beloved, that every event, whether of joy or sorrow, 
that occurred in it, excited tlie sympathy of all who knew it. 

It was that joyous season, when every thing animate and 
inanimate expands and glows, under a bright and genial sky ; 
when the gardens and wiidwoods are rich in floral splendour ^ 
the water rolls blue in the sunshine, and the meadows and 
plains wear that magnificent depth of colour, which is seen 
only in northern latitudes. It w'as a season for youthful 
parties, gay gatherings at home and abroad ; the morning 
ride, the evening walk, or the sail in the pleasure-boat un- 
der the moonlight or stars. Frank and Laura Wharton 
came to welcome home the friend of their childhood, and to 
add to the gayety and variety of the scene. Frank had said, 
two years before, that Laura was made for something better 
or worse than a fine lady. Trifling circumstances some- 
times speak volumes. 

“Oh! what a beautiful picture !” exclaimed she, when 
Bessy carried her into the studio, where Vivian still lingered 
over the portrait he loved, adding here and there an almost 
imperceptible touch ; “ it looks like an angel, but not like 
you, Bessy.” 

“ Not like her !” repeated Vivian. 

“ No ! very slightly,” replied Laura, making a telescope 
with her hand, and taking a long look ; “ I should know it 
by the hair, and by its being here, but it ’s so much flattered, 
it ’s so exquisitely beautiful !” 

“ It is impossible that it should be flattered !” said Vivian, 
warmly. “ It is impossible e-^en to do justice to the ori- 
ginal.” 

“ Unless to mortal it W3re given, 

To dip his brush in djes of heaven,” 

Added Frank, whio entered at this moment. “ I agree with 
you. that it would be impossible to flatter Bessy.” 

“Oh yes ! I knew you would say so, Frank,” cried Lau- 
with an intelligent smile. “ You, who have been B^y’# 


AUNT patty’s scrap- bag. 


professed and favoured admirer so long. But friendship, 
you know, is impartial ; what is blind, I will not say.” 

Vivian coloured high, and cast a piercing glance at Frank. 

“ A beautiful picture must always be more beautiful than the 
original,” said Bessy. “ There is such a softness, and smooth- 
ness in the colours, such perfect repose of features, such in- 
describable sweetness and calmness of expression. Painting 
is the dream of life — all the harshness of reality is lost in 
the brighter, mellower, tints of imagination.” 

“ You still love dreams, Bessy,” said Frank; “ you never 
utter a long sentence, without bringing in a dream. Well, 
I am glad of it, for I am just beginning to find out what 
sweet things dreams are.” 

There was something in his tone and manner that called 
a blush to Bessy’s cheek, and a frown to Vivian’s brow. It 
was the first time the idea of the gay Frank as a lover had 
entered the bosom of Bessy. It was the first time the dread 
of a rival seriously disturbed the peace of Vivian. Laura 
had consciously or unconsciously sent a dart that continued 
to rankle, when the painter was left alone in his studio, and 
his pencil hung idly in his hands. In this attitude Laura 
found him, when, after having seen Frank and Bessy seated 
at a game of chess, she returned in search of her handker- 
chief, which she was sure she had left on the easel. 

“ Are you, too, dreaming, Mr. Vivian ?” asked she, gayly. 
“ There must be something infectious in the atmosphere, 
or something irresistible in Bessy’s example. Every one 
dreams but me.” 

“ I have been in a dream, I acknowledge,” said Vivian, 
rising; “and I ought to thank you for awakening me.” 

“ I !” repeated Laura, in a tone of surprise — “I do not 
understand you. I spoke sportively, but you give me so 
serious an answer, you have excited my curiosity.” 

“Pardon me, Miss Wharton, but you made an allusion to 
your brother, which was exquisitely painful. Will you 
explain it ? Is he, indeed, the favoured lover of the original 
of that picture ?” 

Vivian spoke .n a hurried, excited tone. He became very 
pale, and cast dcwn his eyes like a man who does not wish 
to see the full extent of his danger. Strange thoughts took 
possession of Laura. She had depreciated Bessy’s beauty, 
because she began to envy its power. She had throwm cut 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


220 

a random remark about Frank, because she thought Vivian 
would admire her less, if he believed her affections were 
engaged. She was not prepared to utter a deliberate false- 
hood, though she had not hesitated to give the most erro- 
neous impressions. 

“ Ask Bessy,” said she, evasively, “ she can explain every 
thing better than I can.” Then fearing he might follow her 
advice, and the benefit of this misunderstanding be lost to 
herself, she added, “ I did not imagine I was revealing any 
secret. I thought every one knew that they had loved 
each other from childhood.” 

“ Then it was an early attachment,” said Vivian, very 
calmly. 

“ Oh ! yes — ^but it was never spoken of seriously, till just 
before Edmund’s departure, when it was all arranged be- 
tween them.” “ 1 have not said what is false,” added she 
to herself. “ for Frank did appropriate her to himself, and 
sne never said a word of disapproval. I am sure that is 
equal to an engagement.” 

“ I am sorry I said any thing about it,” continued she, 
since it seems to give you so much pain. I beg you not 
to repeat what I have said to Bessy, for she would never 
forgive me, and we have always been the most intimate 
friends — never had a quarrel in our lives.” 

“ I thank you,” replied he, coldly, “ I will not commit you 
m any respect. I shall not remain here long to disturb the 
happiness of any one.” 

“ For heaven’s sake, don’t let what I have said drive you 
away. What will they think of it ? How strange it will 
look ! Pray, Mr. Vivian, don’t be so rash, so precipitate.” 

“ I am not rash. Miss Wharton. Don’t you see how very 
calm I am. Be assured, I will never make so poor a return 
for your kindness as to betray your confidence.” 

He began to gather up his brushes and pencils ; and 
Laura felt that her presence was undesirable. She stole 
out of the room, and entered the one where Bessy sat, im- 
pelled by an undefinable dread of Vivian’^ seeking an im- 
mediate explanation. The sight of Bessy’s sweet, uncon- 
scious face, leaning over the chess-board, gave her a pang 
of remorse. She seemed absorbed in her game. Her head 
rested on her right hand, her left held back the ringlets from 
her brow. 


AUNT patty’s SCKAP-BAG, 


221 


“ How lovely she looks !” thought Laura ; “ I am sure 
Frank loves her, whether she love him or not ; and, I have 
only done her a kindneps, if I have saved her from having 
her affections entangled by a poor painter.” 

She soon saw the figure of Vivian standing against one 
of the pillars of the piazza, and she could not bear the sight. 
She arose to find Emma, thinking she could look upon her 
with an untroubled conscience. 

Bessy, absorbed in the interest of the game, and with ner 
face inclined from the window, was not aware of the vicinity 
of Vivian, though her thoughts had been wandering towards 
him more frequently than she would be willing to acknow- 
ledge. “ I wish I knew what to do with this bishop,” said 
she, thoughtfully, “it troubles me.” 

“ I could tell you a very good use to make of it,” said 
Frank, “ if you would let me.” 

“ Nay, Frank, I am not in a jesting mood. I’m in a state 
of serious perplexity.” 

“ And so am I. This bishop does not trouble you half 
so much, as a certain gentleman troubles me — this Vivian.” 

“ How foolish !” exclaimed Bessy, hastily. “ If you do 
not attend to your game, I shall check-mate you, though 
you have so much the advantage.” 

“ But, seriously, Bessy, I want to know something more 
about this Vivian.” 

“ This Vivian, as you are pleased to call him, sir, is ready 
to answer for himself,” saiff a haughty voice, and Vivian 
suddenly entered the room. Bessy started up in terror at 
this sudden apparition, and Frank also rose, though he gave 
back the haughty glance of Vivian, with-one of equal scorn. 

“ What do you wish to know of me, sir,” repeated he, — 
“ I can save this lady the trouble of replying.” 

“ This lady !” cried Bessy. “ Oh, Vivian, do not speak 
so ansrrilv. If you knew Frank as well as I do, you would 
not P He always speaks in that familiar way. If 

he w yaking of me to you, he would call me, this 

Bessy.” 

“ I said I wanted to know you better, sir,” exclaimed 
Frank, “and I repeat what I said. Do you understand 
me ?” 

“You never will know me better, unless you seek me un- 
der another roof than thi i I will never make this house* 


222 


AUNT PATTV'S SCRAP -BAG. 


scene of contention. But if we meet again, sir, Deware oi 
the language you use.” 

“ Oh, Frank ! what have you done ?” cried Bessy as- 
Vivian, with hasty step, passed over the threshold, crossed 
the piazza, and was gone.” 

Done ! nothing ! If I had done what I ought, I should 
nave knocked him flat on the floor. What business had he 
to he listening : I am sorry I did not chastise him for his in- 
dolence. But, Bessy, you are weeping. I did not mean to 
Mmund your feelings. I would not do it for any earthly 
consideration. Don’t weep any more, —don’t Bessy, — I 
cannot bear to see you weep.” 

Bessy sat, her face coveied wdth her hands, leaning over 
the back of a chair. Every now and then the sound of a. 
suppressed sob echoed dclefully through Frank’s heart; 
he longed to comfort her ; to take her in his arms ; to wipe 
away her tears and tell her how beautiful, and amiable, and 
angelic he thought her. But he did not even dare to take 
a seat near her at this moment, such a sudden transition 
was wrought in his feelings. He felt as if he never more 
would venture to approach Bessy with familiarity ; that 
instead of the free, gay rallies, reckless of offence, he was 
become the modest and respectful young man. But along 
with this gentleness and respect for Bessy, there was a 
burning desire to humble and exile that Vivian, as he could 
not for his life help calling him. What business had he 
to put on 'Such aristocratic airs, and presume to monopolize 
Bessy, to the exclusion of her best and earliest friends ; he, 
a mere stranger, w'hom, six weeks ago, nobody knew, and 
for whom six weeks hence, nobody would care - 

“Won’t you speak to me, Bessy?” said he, at length, 
“I’ll call Vivian back if you w.'sh it — though I’ll be sure 
to say it’s for your sake, not mine.” 

“No, no, no!” answered she, without raising her head; 
“ say nothing to him, nor to any one else. t wish 

to see him. But \ve have all been so hap_^ ^ ether; 
even Homer has been joyous at times ; and now it has aU 
passed away like a dream.” 

“We shall be happier than ever,” cried Frank, em- 
boldened by the sound of her voice. “ I’m sure I have a 
right to think that you sbould care more for me, your life- 
ong friend, than the acquaintance of a few passing weeks 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


I'm sure that — I mean Vivian, crnnot think half so muck 
of yon as I do, who have known and loved you so long.” 

“Yes! we’ve always been Kke a brother and sister, 
Frank.” 

“ I don’t mean this brother and sister sbrt of love, Bessy ; 
that passed very well two or three years ago, but I’ve found 
out, theie’s a great deal stronger love than what I feel for 
Laura.” 

“ Don’t speak of it now, Frank ; my head aches and 
throbs, and I know not what I am saying.” She rose and 
walked to the door, still veiling as much as possible her 
flushed and tearful face. Pausing a moment on the threshold; 
she said, “Promise me, Frank, that there shall be no more 
angry words or looks. If they are given to you, return them 
not ; speak not of it to Edmund, and forget it yourself.” 

“ I would do any thing in the world for your sake, Bessy, 
but I cannot promise, if any one gives a blazing glance, to 
look pleased and smile ; I will tr}’’, however, to swallow my 
anger.” 

Frank checked himself, for he found he was talk- 
ing to empty walls ; Bessy was gone and no trace left of 
her, but her handkerchief which lay upon the floor, by 
the chair over which she had leaned ; he took it up, it was 
moistened by her tears. His heart felt strangely moved by 
the impression of Bessy’s tears ; and by the knowledge that, 
however unintentionally, he had been the cause. Was it love 
for Vivian that made her weep? No! he would not admit 
that truth ; she was far more distant and reserved to Vivian 
than to himself ; and he recollected that several times when, 
on entering the room, they had both oflered her a chair, 
she had taken his in preference to Vivian’s. This and 
several similar recollections warmed and softened Frank’s 
usually gay heart. He grew sentimental over this hand- 
kerchief moistened by the tears of youth and beauty. He 
folded it carefully, and placing it in his bosom, secretly 
vowed to devote himself henceforth valiantly and constantly 
to this fairest, sweetest, best and loveliest of all created 
beings. Frank certainly was in love ; he had placed a 
maiden’s handkerchief next his heart, and his thoughts ran 
into superlatives. He had no opportunity of proving his 
knight-errantry in the course of the day. Vivian did not 
appetr, and Bessy remained in her own rocm, on the plea 


224 


AUNT patty’s SCRAP-BA6. 


of a sick-neadache, that invai able excuse for a sick and 
aching heart. In the evening, as Estelle sat in the window 
of Aunt Patty’s chamber, sewing on the immortal counter 
pane, she saw the figure of Vivian walking slowly up and 
down the garden walks, and sometimes he stopped and 
stood still a long time, and looked down upon the ground. 
The child wondered at his protracted absence, and his mow 
lonely walk ; a flight of steps ran from Aunt Patty’s cham 
her into the garden: and down those steps Estelle flew, and 
in a moment was at Vivian’s side. 

“ Why don’t you come in,” said she, in a sweet, earnest 
tone, which it would have been hard to resist. “You 
have been gone so long, and you walk about so lonely.” 

“ I’m going away, Estelle, and I don’t like to bid good- 
Dy to friends ; you must do it for mcj” 

“Going away!” repeated Estelle, sorrowfully. “Oh I 
Mr. Vivian, don’t say so — you haven’t painted Aunt Patty’s 
likeness and mine ; and Aunt Patty may not live till you 
come back again.” 

“ I shall never come back again,” cried Vivian, in an 
agitated voice, putting his arms round Estelle and kissing 
her cheek ; “ but I never shall forget you.” 

“ Come up in Aunt Patty’s room, and tell her th© 
reason,” said the child, pulling Vivian by the hand, all the 
time she ran up the steps. “ Come and see Aunt Patty, 
for I know it isn’t right to go away so.” 

Vivian found himself in Aunt Patty’s presence, without 
any volition of his own ; who smiled, nodded', and pointed 
to a chair, while Estelle still held his hand as if she feared 
he would vanish from her sight. “ See, what a beautiful 
counterpane Estelle is making for me,” exclaimed Aunt 
Patty, whose ruling passion became more and more ab- 
sorbing. “ I was afraid the pieces would get lost after a 
while, and thought I would have them put all together ; 
I mean to give it to my niec 2 that’s married first — Emma or 
Bessy* I expect it will be Bessy, for Enima is weakly, as 
I used to be, and serious. I always thought young Mr. 
Frank and Bessy would m ike a match ; they used to play 
together when they were children. Here’s a piece of 
Bessy’s frock, that she woie the first time you ever came 
here. It’s blue, shaded in a kind of shell work ; you know 
^iue becomes Bessy, she’s so fair. Blue always become! 


AT7NT patty’s SCRAP- BAG. 225 

a fair complexion ; I never looked well in blue, because I 
was a brunette — red suited my comple xion best. But I 
needn’t talk about complexions now ; I’m too old — all 
colours are alike to me.” 

Aunt Patty had mounted her hobby; and she went on, 
telling the histories of myriad shreds, red , pink, and.brown ; 
but Vivian heard her not. He gazed on the sample of 
shaded blue, as if he had not the povi er to withdraw his 
eyes. 

“ May I keep this, Aunt Patty ?” said he, at length ; 
“ it will remind me of you, when I am gone.” 

“Yes, keep it,” replied she, “if you like; you’ve 
crumpled and twisted it so, it would’nt do to put in the 
quilt, and I have another piece like it. But what makes 
you look so sad, and talk about being gone ? Has any thing 
happened ? Have you had any bad news from home ?” 

Vivian turned away his face and appeared intently oc- 
cupied with Estelle’s work. “ Oh ! Aunt Patty,” cried 
Estelle, beseechingly ; “ he’s really going away, and I shall 
not have your picture after all — and what shall we all do 
without him ? and what will sister Bessy say,” continued 
she, turning to Vivian, “ who loves to talk to you so much?” 

“ Bessy will not care when I am gone,” replied he in a 
softer tone. “ There are others here whom she loves better 
than me.” 

“Yes, mother and Edmund — but what of. that? She 
can love ever so many at a time.” 

Estelle could not comprehend the dark expressions of 
Vivian’s face, as she uttered this consoling remark; she 
began to be afraid of him. He spoke so strange, and 
looked so wild and pale. 

“ Don’t plague him about my picture, child,” said Aunt 
Patty ; “ it isn't worth thinking about. I was willing to 
have it taken to please the children, so they might remem- 
ber how poor old Patty looked when she’s dead and gone. 
I intended to be painted in my thunder and lightning calico, 
as Edmund calls it ; here is a piece of it ; but it’s no matter, 
it wouldn’t have been fit to. put up, by the side of Bessy’s, 
any way. Bless her heart, here she comes, looking as 
pale as a sheet. No, she’s as fresh as a rose now.” 

Bessy opened the door, unconscicus of the guest that 
lonoured Aunt Patty’s quiet apartm nt. She would havt 


226 


AUNT patty’s scrap- bag 


retreated, but Estelle ran to her, and tcld her alrhost broato- 
iessiy, that Vivian was going away, .vithout bidding any 
one good-by: and that he was never coining back again : 
and that he did’nt believe she cared w lether he went or not. 

“Am I so lightly given up, then ?” tliou^ht Bessy, “ that 
for a single offence from Frank, he is willing to go, without 
a word of explanation, or even one k.nd good-by ? Is th'S 
the end of all his fond, flattering wo'ds ! Is this the dark 
wakening of my life’s young dream 

That pride, which is ever ready to gird and sustain the 
female heart, in the hour of trial and desertion, forbade Bessy 
from manifesting any weakness, or regret, before one wl o 
could trifle so wantonly with her feelings, 

“Beg him to stay, Bessy,” whispered Estelle. 

“ If Vivian wishes to go, why should we wish him to re- 
main ?” asked Bessy, in a cold, constrained voice 

“ When I know that my presence is intrusive.” cried 
Vivian, in the same tone, “ it is natural that 1 should wish to 
depart.” 

There was a long pause. Aunt Patty took otfher spec- 
tacles, wiped them over and over again, put them on, and 
■ looked at Vivian and Bessy, as if she thought she had maile 
a. mistake in their identity. In the simplicity of a lonely 
life, which the sunbeams and clouds of love never passed 
over — the roses and thorns of love never strewed — the hush 
and the tempest of love never agitated ; she was unskilled 
in that lore, which could have enabled her to interpret the 
mysterious change in her 3 ''Oung friends. 

“ Well,” said she — for she had a great horror of long 
pauses, and was always the first to break them — “ if you 
must go. may God bless yon, and take you in his holy keep- 
ing. You have a great talent intrusted to you. It isn’t 
everybody that can copy the most marvellous works of God, 
as you can. It’s like making the deaf hear, the dumb speak, 
and bringing the dead to life. It’s like taking the power of 
the Almighty into your own hands, and making a new 
creation. Then there is such a comfort in it, when friends 
are dead and gone. If the Lord should please to take away 
’ ** Bessy, we would never feel as if we had really lost her, as 
long as we had that sweet, beau ;iful picture of yours to look 
upcn.” 

Aunt Patty, in her eloquence had touched a tender chord. 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 227 

The idea that Bessy might, die, and ail that remained of her, 
be that cold, still, bright s ladow, the mockery of life, was 
more than Vivian could bear. He turned and looked fixedly 
on her. She sat with her head resting on her hand ; her 
eyes bent upon the floor. She looked as if she had sud- 
denly frozen in that attitude, so cold, still, and white sue 
looked. 

“ Are you ill, Bessy?” cried he suddenly, approaching 
her. 

She shook her head, and put out her hand, with a depre- 
cating motion. There was a quick revulsion in his feelings. 

“ She repels me from her,” thought he, “ even at this 
moment. ,She has loved Mm from childhood. She is be- 
trothed to him, yet she smiled and listened to my vows. So 
young, so fair, yet so false ! She has broken my heart — 
blasted my fame, and withered my ambition. I never shall 
touch pencil, brush, or canvas more. All my glorious vi- 
sions are fled. Nothing is left but a wide, dreary, blank — 
an aimless, joyless, loveless existence, or perchance an early, 
undistinguished grave.” 

As these thoughts rolled darkly through Vivian’s mind, 
the few, short words, “ Farewell, Bessy,” were all that 
escaped from his lips. She was conscious of a quick, con- 
vulsive pressure of the hand, the sound of a shutting door, 
and then it seemed to her, that there was a strange mingling 
of light and sound in her head ; a rushing,, and roaring, and 
flushing, that made her giddy, and sick, and faint. 

“ Don’t look so, Bessy,” cried Estelle. “ What’s the 
matter ? Speak to me, Bessy. Oh, Aunt Patty, she can’t. 
Give her your salts. Where’s your hartshorn ? Where’s 
some water ?” 

Estelle ran about the room for salts, hartshorn, and-Avater, 
but neither could be found, and she was on the wing in an- 
other direction, when Aunt Patty arrested her, by suggesting 
a novel expedient. 

‘ Give her a pinch of snuff, Estelle, quick. It will be as 
good as a dose of hartshorn. t will make her sneeze, and 
that wdll bring her to herself again.” 

Estelle, in her fright, snatched the snuff-box from Aunt 
Patty’s tremulous hand, and rushed up to Bessy, who still 
looked so frozen and white, that it made her shudder. But 
the confusion in Bessy’s senses had subsided so far that sh« 


AUNT PATTY^S SCRAP-BAG. 


228 

could hear disiinct sounds ; and Aunt Patty's proposa. ex 
cited so much horri r and disgust, that she drew back her 
head, in time .0 avoid the odious contact. Aunt Patty took 
the real old-fashioned, yellow Scotch snuff, and though it did 
not mar perceptibly the beauty of her own face, it would 
have left a very disfiguring cloud round Bessy’s fair nose. 

“ There, there, the very smell has revived her,” cried 
Aunt Patty ; “ there’s nothing like snuff, after all. Go 
quietly to bed, darling, and don’t get to thinking and dream- 
ing too hard. You’ve walked about too much in the moon- 
shine lately, and I’ve always heard it was bad for the brains. 
They say, though, that angels fly about in the moonlight, 
and I’ve sometimes thought that I’ve seen them sitting un- 
der the trees, and on the banks of the water, where it shines 
like silver. Well, if they do come down from the skies, I 
know they will watch by your pillow ; so good-night again, 
darling, and, as old Doctor Watts says, “ Holy angels guard 
thy bed.” 

The poetical chords in Bessy’s soul vibrated in gentle 
response to Aunt Patty’s kind good-night. She bent her head 
to receive her parting kiss, and retired with Estelle, who 
watched her with anxious tenderness, fearing the return of 
that pale, death-like look. 

The sudden departure of Vivian caused quite a sensation, 
when it was made known at the breakfast table. Laura, 
who well knew the cause, was the most astonished of all. 
She could not imagine, she could not conceive, the motive 
of his absconding so. Perhaps he had been detected in 
some disgraceful act, apd was fleeing from the penalty of the 
violated law. At any rate, it was very rude and ungrateful 
;n him, to leave the family so abruptly. 

Edmund, though he thought his conduct very strange and 
unaccountable, warmly defended him from Laura’s sweep- 
ing charges. He was willing to stake his life on the purity 
of his moral character. Such genius, enthusiasm, and sen- 
sibility, never could be the accompaniments of meanness and 
vice. Edmund reasoned with the warmth of a young and 
generous spirit, which, incapable of any thing low and de- 
grading, can hardly believe in the existence of vice. 

Mr. Selwyn smiled with more worldly wisd )m, though 
he loved the confidence that was born of rectitude and inno- 
cence. He was mortified at Vivian’s departure; for, if it 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 229 

chould really result in guilt, it would prove an error in his 
judgment, which he seldom committed. 

Mrs. Worth and Emma said but little, but they thought 
of Bessy, and had some sad forebodings. 

Frank thought it a fit of well-founded jealousy, but he 
would not betray his thoughts. 

Estelle sat in silence, looking “ unutterable things,” for 
she had promised Bessy not to mention his strange visit to 
Aunt Patty’s room. 

What Bessy thought and felt was confessed to her mo- 
ther the first time they were alone. All the love, hope, joy, 
fear and anguish of that pure, imaginative, loving, too sus- 
ceptible heart, was poured into the heart of one, who gave 
back the tenderest sympathy, blended with the most judi- 
cious counsels ; one, in whpm the experience of riper years 
was softened by the still living and glowing memories of 
youth. 

“ Oh, mother !” cried Bessy, at the close of this long, af- 
fectionate interview, “ how grateful I am for your kindness, 
gentleness, and sympathy !* You do not blame me for my 
weakness and folly. I will struggle against it for your 
sake. And yet I was so happy in his companionship. 
After he came, it seemed as if new faculties and sensibili- 
ties dawned in my soul, as stars gleam out thick and bright 
on the firmament when the wand of night is lifted. Yet 
he was not like night. He was too bright, too glorious for 
night. A thousand times, dear mother, I’ve felt as if I had 
existed before, and feelings and events seemed but the re- 
miniscences of another shadowy world. Perhaps you do 
not understand me, but I’m sure my spirit lived before it 
animated this dust of mine. Yes, lived, and glowed, and 
loved. And when Vivian came, my heart sprang to meet 
him, as one known, loved, and remembered ; the being of a 
fairer clime than this. Oh ! what a change there was ! 
The skiee looked bluer — the sun brighter, the birds sang a 
more melodious song; even your smile, my mother, seemed 
softer and sweeter th^an ever. I nave lived, for a little time, 
the life of an angel ; and now it is all over, and we will never 
speak of it again. And I will try to smile, and let no one 
see that it is an effort to do so. I will henceforth live nearer 
to God.” 

Bessy looked up with such a heavenly expression, that hej 
15 


230 Atmx patty’s scrap-bag. 

mother thought she was too much assimilated to angels fof 
an t?arthly union. Perhaps, like the daughter of Tephthab* 
she was about to be sacrificed on his altaH in the dew of hen: 
youth, and the light of her beautjr — a sweet, fragrant ofTer-^ 
mg, holy and acceptable in his sight. 

“ God bless thee, my child, and give thee strength to keep 
thy holy resolution,” said Mrs. Worth, tenderly embracing 
her ; while her eyes were moistened with tears. “ Take 
comfort from my experience. I have wept over the loss of 
one, whom I loved with a love to which that you feel for 
Vivian must be light. Yes! Bessy, for it grew stronger, 
and deeper, and holier by time ; yours is but the flower 
that blooms in the sunshine, which a summer gale may 
destroy ; mine the tree, rooted into the soil, that must be 
rent asunder ere it withers and falls. You remember when 
you were made fatherless ; you remember well the first dark 
days of my widowhood ; but you never knew, none but my 
Maker knew, the desolation, the agony of my soul, till I 
learned submission to His will ; and could say that it was 
good that I had been afflicted. You are very young, my 
Bessy, and if this first blossom of love is doomed to an un- 
timely blight, others will bloom, to sweeten and gladden 
your youth. Nor has the grave interposed its cold, deep 
barrier between you and the object of your affections. Life 
and hope, and perhaps joy and love, remain for you. In 
the mean time, let us live nearer to each other and to God, 
and if we cannot find happiness we shall be blessed with 
content.” 

From this time, a holier, closer, tenderer union than had 
ever before united them, existed between Mrs. Worth and 
her beautiful child. . They had looked into each other’s 
hearts, as the moon looks into the deep silent waters ; re- 
flecting hght, beauty, and peace. 


inWT patty’s scrap-bao. 


231 


CHAPTER IX. 

In the immediate neighbourhood of Mrs. Worth, there 
dwelt two aged women, who were called, par excellence., 
the good old ladies. They sustained the relation of mother 
and daughter to each other; the latter having seen her 
threescore, the former her fourscore years and ten. They 
, belonged to the nominal poor of the town, but when their 
misfortune and infirmities first threw them on the public for 
support, they were so much distressed at the idea of going 
to the almshouse, that a number of individuals pledged 
themselves to furnish them the means of subsistence, in a 
small, but comfortable cabin, which was gratuitously offered 
them. Their w'ants were but few, nor would they want their 
little long ; they were called, through universal courtesy* 
old Lady Graves and old Lady Paine. Strangers would 
have thought there were no other old ladies in town, for 
they were always called the old ladies ; a distinction they 
obtained as much by their piety and tenderness, as by their 
superior age. The children of Mrs. Worth had from earli- 
est childhood considered it one of their greatest pleasures 
to visit this little cabin, and be the almoners of their mother’^ 
bounty. They had many sweetheart gifts of their own, too, 
to offer, such as flowers and fruit ; and many a delicacy 
which they denied themselves, that they might earn the 
blessing of the aged. The old ladies still called them their 
little • benefactresses ; and Edmund was their dear, ^ood, 
darling boy ; though his head now towered over theirs. 
He had remembered them even in transatlantic shores ; and 
brought them spectacles, which they thought had rejuven- 
ated their eyes ; so light-giving and faith-inspiring is be- 
nevolence. The path which led to their dwelling was a 
straight, narrow lane, margined on each side with green ; 
and it was a smooth, beaten track. The grass was never 
suffered to grow in the centre, nor to be wantonly trampled 
down at the sides. In winter, when the snow came drift- 
ing down, covering the ground with one broad, deep white 
crust, some kind hand dways cut a nice trench up to the 


232 AT7NT patty’s SCRAP-BAG. 

old ladies’ door. When the farmers turned out in a body 
to carry wood to their minister, and the sleds moved in long 
procession down the street, leaving a shining path behind 
them, a load was always left quietly in the old ladies’ yard* 
and it was sure to be nicely cut and piled, for their handy 
use. Truly the path of poverty and age was smoothed be- 
fore these time-worn pilgrims, as they travelled hand ir 
hand towards the grave, looking backward with gratitude, and 
forward with faith, to the green fields of the promised land. 
These humble women played no conspicuous part in the 
drama of life ; and it may perhaps be asked, why are they 
introduced in this collection of family pictures ? Because 
they linked the young, whose history we are writing, with 
the past generations, — because that low cabin was the scene 
of many of their purest joys ; and more than all, because, in 
drawing pictures, we love contrasts of light and shade ; and 
nothing can he more beautiful than to see the glow and 
brightness of youth side by side with the pallor and dim- 
ness of age. 

Frank called these old ladies the belles of the town, and 
laughed at Edmund for his devotion to them ; yet he had 
often been detected in stealthily sending large packets fromi 
the stores, which came to them like fairy gifts, without a 
name. Laura thought it very ridiculous to make such a 
fuss about the old grannies, and wondered how the grace- 
ful Edmund and the beautiful Bessy could endure such 
crones. One evening Edmund entered the cottage to avoid 
a shower, that fell just as he was passing. The door was 
open and he stood a moment on the threshold unobserved, 
to contemplate a picture exceedingly beautiful in his eyes. 
The elder of the aged sat in an arm-chair, her knitting in 
her hand, one needle shining under the border of her 
crimped cap, above her silver hair ; her ball pinned to her 
frock ; a heart-shaped knitting sheath fastened to her side. 
The mildness and innocence of second childhood softened a 
countenance no longer agitated by the storms of human 
passion. The waters were all still ; not even a ripple dis- 
turbed the reflection of life’s setting sun, that dipped his 
mellowed beams in the waves. On her left, the venerable 
daughter sat, bending over a little wheel, her inseparable 
companion ; whose low, monotonous humming constituted- 
whe music of her existence, for she was deaf, and the usual 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 235 

tone of the human voice did not penetrate her ear. She 
could hear, however, faintly, the buzz’ng of her own little 
wheel, and she said it sounded like a distant waterfall ; and 
It made her feel so peaceful, she loved to hear it. Now she 
leaned forward and wet her fingers in the gourd-shell, 
tiiat hung by the distaff'; then she twisted the shining flax 
into almcst invisible thread, her foot patting the treadh? 
board, the pedal to this harp of industry. Between these 
two were seated a youthful maiden, who looked like a 
bright flower springing up amid alpine snows ; with her 
pure white robes, her dark, unbound hair, her face partially 
inclined over the book of God, which lay upon her knees, 
from which she was reading to the two aged Christians. 
Victorine had never appeared so interesting to the eyes of 
Edmund. He had scarcely looked upon her lately; so 
fearful was he of exciting the jealous madness of his brother. 
But now, withdrawn from the glance of that dark eye, which 
watched his every motion, unseen too by herself, he dared 
to gaze upon her and think that time had wrought marvel- 
lous changes, since she was the wild, gipsy girl of the 
French menagerie. There was something soft .and pen- 
sive in the expression of her usually too bright and flashing 
eye ; and the holy act in which she was engaged threw 
an air of sanctity and spirituality around her virgin form. 
She was reading the Psalms of David, and their melody 
fell sweetly on his ear : 

“ Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all gene 
rations. 

“ Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou 
hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting 
to everlasting, thou art God.” 

While she read this sublime prayer of Moses, which is 
included in the hosannas of the sweet singer of Israel, the 
spinner leaned over the distaff, for the clear voice of Vic- 
torine glided through the bars that obstructed her hearing, 
like the song of a bird through its grated cage, and the 
octogenarian dropped her knitting in her lap, and raised 
her glimmering eyes to heaven, murmuring in response * 
“ Fev^ and evil have the days of the years of my pilgrimage 
been.” Edmund would not have interrupted this beautiful 
scene, had all the waters of the deluge been pouring upon 
him ; but when Victorine arose and laid the Bible upon the 


2U 


AUNT patty’s scrap- bag. 


little table, beside the emblematic hour-glass, he crossed the 
threshold and was welcomed, as he always was, with grate- 
ful smiles and trembling pressures of the hainj. “ Bless 
the dear boy,” exclaimed old Lady Graves ; “ he heis his 
father's steps and his mother’s smile. I should know when 
he entered, were I blind. Bless me, how the young plants 
shoot up. I remember when your mother came to town, a 
lovely, blooming bride, as young as Victorine ; and your 
father had the princely air which you have now ; and now 
he’s mouldering away in the grave, and you, who were not 
then, stand tall and man-like before me, as if you had risen 
up out of his ashes. Alack-a-day ! what changes there 
are in the world ! And I, poor old creature, who felt as 
old then as I do now, may live to see the day when your 
children may be dandled on my knees, nor fear the face of 
a hundred years.” 

“ I shall never marry anybody, dear grandmother,” 
answered Edmund, smiling. ‘*1 think it likely I shall live 
an old bachelor, and take care of mother till she gets to be 
as aged as 3 ’’ou are now.” 

“ You 1” said the old lady, shaking her head. “ No, no : 
the Lord never created you for an old bachelor. I was 
just thinking, when you came in, what a beautiful match 
you and Victorine would make, — both so good, and kind, 
and handsome; and living so close together, too : its natural 
to be thinking about it.” 

“ Somebod}’- else is thinking about it,” said Edmund, try- 
ing to speak with indifference. “ Homer would not like to 
hear \’ou unite any name but his with Victorine’s. He had 
the advantage of me whilst I was the other side of the 
ocean.” 

“ He !” repeated the old lady, in a sorrowful tone ; “ he’s 
too dark and gloomy to make her, or anybody else happy. 
When he was a little boy, no higher than my knee, he 
used to sit, like a raven, in a corner, and refuse to play, 
because, he said, nobody cared any thing about him, and 
he wouldn’t go where he \vasn’t wanted. I love him, be- 
cause he’s the son of your mother ; and I love every thing 
that belongs to her, — even the blades of grass that grow 
round the stepping-stones of her door : but I don’t want 
him to marry that \'oung thing, who’s got such a tender 
heart ; it woula break if it were handled roughly, Donh 


AUNT patty’s scrap- bag. 


235 


be angry with an old woman for speaking her mind so plain ; 
the Lord fixes all these things in his own almightiness, 
without taking counsel from any one ; and I don’t believe 
he ever matched these two.” 

Edmund felt that his old friend was leading him into 
iangerous ground ; and he saw, by Victorine’s crimsoned 
cheek and embarrassed air, that she was anxious to evade 
the subject. She walked to the window, and casting an 
uneasy glance abroad, declared the rain was subsiding, and 
she feared they would be wondering ai her long absence. 
Edmund rose to accompany her ; he had no umbrella, but 
he thought it would be safer to walk a short distance in the' 
rain, than remain to hear a conversation of which Homer 
was the theme. They went out together, and had walked 
a few steps, when Edmund, suddenly recollecting himself, 
exclaimed — “Return, Victorine, and I will go and bring 
you an umbrella and shawl. Strange, I should have been 
so careless of your comfort.” 

-^‘No,” answered she, hastily; “I love to walk in the 
rain: nothing exhilarates my spirits so much; and to walk 
with you, Edmund, reminds me of ‘ Auld lang syne. 
You are almost like a stranger to me now.” 

Victorine sighed, and Edmund knew that his reserve- 
and coldness, contrasted with his former brotherly fa- 
miliarity, must appear very strange and unkind to her. 
He could not tell her it was to avoid exciting his brother’s 
jealousy, that he imposed such a restraint on himself. He 
preferred bearing the reproach of caprice and inconsistency, 
which, he doubted not, she laid upon hin, than expose 
Homer to blame. 

“ I am sorry to have you get so wet,” said he, taking oil 
nis hat, and holding it against the wind so as to keep the 
rain, which now fell faster and faster, from beating in her 
face. Victorine protested against this gallantry, but Ed- 
mund reminded her of the days of his boyhood, when he 
was proverbial for seeking the baptism of a summer 
showe-. There was something exhilarating, as Victorine 
said, ill hurrying through the fast-dropping rain ; and the 
reminiscences of childhood, thus awakened, drew them 
closer together, and made Edmund forget, for a moment 
that he was no longer a boy, free as the wind, and with u 
heart as ransparent as the rain-drops. Their gay laugh# 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


236 

mingled together; Victorine’s long hair blew against his 
cheeks, and fluttered among his dark-brown locks. Tney 
were children again, in this merry plight, and could not 
help feeling sorry when they reached the threshold, where 
they stopped, panting for breath, with glowing cheeks, and 
wet, disordered hair. 

“ iVasn’t that a glorious run,” cried Victorine ; “ I 
wouldn’t have missed it for Gilpin’s thousand pounds.” 

Victorine turned her sparkling eyes to Edmund, as she 
spoke, but a coming figure “ cast its shadow before,” and 
prevented his reply. Homer had seen their approach from 
the window, and the lion passion, lurking in the bottom of 
his heart, leaped from its covert. Edmund saw, by the 
expression of his countenance, all that was passing within ; 
and the merry laugh died on his lips. He immediately 
explained their unexpected meeting, and the circumstances 
of their return ; inwardly reproaching himself for experi- 
encing so much gratification from an accident which caused 
his brother anguish. But the cloud still lowered on Homer’s 
brow. The shower passed over, and, 

“ Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 
Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold.” 

Brighter and brighter still glowed its seven-fold beams, till 
another paler bow appeared within, and still another 
beauteous apparition, till the triple arch spanned the hea- 
vens, reflected its dyes on the green, glittering earth and 
panting leaves, and mirrored itself in the glassy depths 
of the streams. The family all gathered in the piazza, to 
gaze on the m' ssenger of peace, standing, like the apoca- 
lyptic angel, with one foot on land, and one foot on sea, 
its garments dipped' in the sun ; and they gazed till the 
glory gradually departed, and nothing was left but a soft, 
gray expanse, soon covered with the deeper gray of twi- 
light. Bessy, at Mr. Selwyn’s request, repeated Campbell’s 
magnificent address to the rainbow, which, he said, was the 
most unrivalled of poems ; but Emma ventured to assert, 
much as she admired the stanzas, the simple and sublime 
annunciation in scripture, of the “ bow of God set as a cove- 
nant on the retreating clouds of the deluge,” surpassed the 
descriptions of human genius. 

. Yes : the shower passed away ; the glorious rainbow faded 
away ; the deep gray of twilight blackened into night, yei 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


237 


still the cloud lowered on Homer’s brow. The lamps were 
lighted. The evening circle gathered together, still Homer, 
like a broken link in the family chain, remained apart, and 
the brightness of that chain was impaired. Mr. Selwyn and 
Emma sat down at a game of chess, his favourite recreation, 
nnd one which suited well her serious and abstracted turn 
ot mind. Since he had discovered her talent, he had. so 
frequently called it into requisition, that now, whenever he 
began to arrange the men on the board, she considered it a 
mute challenge, and immediately relinquished whatever occu- 
pation in which she was engaged, grateful that she could 
contribute, in any degree, to the amusement of so noble and 
generous a being. Like all great men, he had his weak- 
nesses ; and one was, he did not like to be defeated. 
Emma played well enough to interest him, without the 
fear of being often beaten, and, on that account, he preferred 
her to more experienced champions. Emma had tact 
enough to perceive this, and she never tried to play too 
well. Absorbed in this quiet, intellectual game, the ine- 
qualities of Homer’s manner, which often threw a shade 
over the evening circle, were seldom perceived by them. 
Viclorine played some of her sweetest songs in concert with 
Edmund’s flute; but the evil spirit departed not. She 
continued to play, however, after Edmund had laid down 
his flute ; and caught up, in a wild, brilliant manner, 
snatches of melody, changing as the notes of a mocking- 
bird, as capricious, and as sweet. 

“ Oh ! Victorine,” exclaimed Laura, throwing down a 
book with which she had been playing, rather than reading ; 
“ have mercy on our ears. You’ve banished Bessy already. 
She seems to have lost her love for music, lately. Why, 
what has inspired you so, to-night ? That fine run in the 
rain with Edmund ? How happened you to meet at those 
evening belles, as Frank calls them? I really think it 
must have been a concerted plan. You and Edmund 
both look guilty : — see, how she blushes ! Goodness ! 
what’s the matter with Homer? What sent him out so 
suddenly ? Frank, didn’t you observe how strange Homer 
looked ?” 

‘‘ How can I hear or observe any thing,” cned Frank, 
“when you overpower every thing with your rattling 
tongue ? Victorine, don’t mind her nonsense, but play my 


238 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


favourite song, before you rise. I’ve been waiting patiently 
for it the whole evening.” 

Frank did observe, with pain and displeasure, the effect 
of his sister’s levity ; and sought to avert the atteAtion of 
Victorine. 

“I cannot play any more, to-night, Frank,” cried she, 
“ though yora are very kind to ask it.” 

She rose, with a heightened colour, and left the room ; 
giving Laura a look, as she passed, of unutterable re- 
proach. 

‘•Mercy ! what a dull place this is getting to be !” cried 
Laura, trying to look innocent. “ One cannot say a word 
in jest, but everybody takes it up as seriously as if they 
were going to fight a duel. Look at Emma, glued down to 
that chess-board, her head leaning on one hand, the other 
stretched out over the queen, like a Roman shield in the 
day of battle. I don’t believe she would hear if seven 
thunders were pealing in her ears.” Emma looked up 
with a sweet smile that belied her words. Laura lowered 
her voice, and continued : — “ Do you know, Frank, that I 
think Emma is really half in love with old Mr. Selwyn ?” 
Emma did not look up again, but her pale cheek turned 
red, and the next move she lost her queen. 

Mr. Selwyn, of whom it might in truth be said, that while 
he was playing chess, he would not hear if seven thunders 
uttered their voice, kept calling out check, check, till she 
had no place to turn, and, gladly surrendering, she retreated 
from the board, giving Laura a mild, but very rebuking 
glance, as she, too, passed out of the room. 

Why, where is everybody going ?” exclaimed Laura; 
“ th'^re must be something extraordinary to see.” She went 
out herself, with the waltzing step, leaving Frank seriously 
angry at her undaunted levity. 

In the mean time Victorine wandered in the piazza, 
whitner Homer had wandered before, and they met, face 
to face, beneath the glimmering stars, that flashed here 
und there, in the “darkening firmament of June.” 

“ Victorine,” said he, suddenly, “ walk with me in the 
garden — I cannot speak to you here.” 

“ It is damp after the shower,” answered she, with 8 
■slight shudder. 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 239 

“ You did not fear the dampness.” replied he in a bitter 
tone, “ when you were clinging to Edmund’s arm.” 

“Come,” cried she, “ I do not fear it now;” and yielding 
to his motion, as he drew her hand round his arm, she fol- 
lowed him through the garden walks, into an arbour whose 
i?hade, soft and refreshing, in a dry, sultry evening, now 
drooped heavily over them, surcharged with the rain and 
the dew. 

“Your hand is very cold, Victorine — I do not wish to 
chill you.” 

“ It is not half so cold as my heart. There is nothing so 
chilling, so freezing as suspicion.” 

“ I know that, but too well. I feel now as if a girdle of 
ice were round my heart. But certainty is not suspicion. 
Victorine, I knoiv that you love Edmund.” 

“ Homer, I came here to be catechised, examined, ques- 
tioned, and cross-questioned. I expected such an inquisi- 
tion, and I can bear it. But I did not come here to be in- 
sulted, and I will not bear it.” The quick-flowing blood of 
the French rushed in a burning current to the face of Vic- 
torine, though darkness rested upon it as a veil. 

“ Stay,” cried he, forcibly detaining her, as she attempted 
to leave the grotto — “ it is not an insult to assert a fact, 
visible as the sun at noonday. When did you ever mani- 
fest in my company the joy, the rapture, that beamed in 
your eyes this day, under circumstances that would have 
drowned a common emotion? When did you ever give me 
such a look as you turned on Edmund, when the sight of 
me seemed to-change you into stone ? Why go away in 
stealth to a spot, which you knew Edmund daily visits, if it 
were not in the hope, the certainty, of meeting him, uncon- 
strained by my presence ? Victorine, you are silent — you 
cannot answer me.” 

“ Can not answer you !” repeated she, indignantly, “ what 
use in reasoning with a madman ! And yet I will reply, 
in justice to myself, not you. How can my eyes beam with 
rapture on one, whose brow is ever clouded by suspicion, 
or darkened by jealous passion ? As well might the volcano 
wonder that the flowers of the valley withered under its 
breath. As well might the ice marvel that it chills the 
breast on which it falls, as you, distrustful, jealous, and un< 


-240 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


just, as you are, as you wonder that I cannot »ook on you 
with joy. You accuse me of visiting by stealth a place fa- 
miliar to us all, as our own family hearth ; where we all go 
and come, without ceremony or care, and where I was as 
likely to meet you, as Edmund. Yes ! it was likely I went 
by stealth, as if ashamed of my purpose, under the light of 
the sun ; and, it was likely, too, that I meditated falsehood 
and guilt, by the side of those aged ones, almost enveloped 
with the shadows of the grave, with the word of God upon 
my knee, and its sacred texts upon my lips ! Oh, shame on 
you, Homer ! — shame on your unmanly accusations. I care 
not for them — I scorn them all; but it grieves me, it pains 
me, to see you sunk in my estimation, unworthy of my re- 
spect, an object of pity and condemnation.” 

“ All this from you, Victorine !” cried he, in a subdued 
voice.” 

“ Yes,” answered she, excited beyond the power of re- 
pressing her emotions; “all this, and more. You must 
•read my character better. You looked upon me first as a 
gay, sportive girl, with more vivacity than feeling, whose 
sallies of mirth amused even you. You believed me next 
a fond, confiding maiden, with more tenderness than pride, 
whose love, once won, must be an inalienable possession. 
You do not know me yet. I grant that I have gayety, and 
tenderness, and trust, but I have an independent spirit, too, 
that will not brook the vassalage of your passions ; an elastic 
one, that rebounds when it is trampled upon ; a strong one, 
that would rend asunder the bonds that confine it, were they 
bars of iron and triple steel.” 

Homer listened in amazement at this burst of indignant 
and outraged feeling from the usually gay and tender Vic- 
torine. The soft, young girl was converted into the accus- 
ing judge, ready to pronounce upon him the stern sentence 
of the law. She seemed lost to him for ever. His own folly 
and madness had sealed his doom. Like the base Judean, 
he had thrown from him a gem richer than ail his tribe, and 
he must mourn through life the consequences of his guilty 
Tashness. A mist was swept from his vision. He saw 
>pawSsion and truth standing side by side, in all their deformity 
and purity, and he wondered that he could ever have yield 
;ed to the dominion of the former. He rer* »’^bered the vow 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 241 

«f his generous brother, and he knew that the lips of Ed- 
mund had never been polluted by a falsehood. He loathed 
himself — he repented in dust and ashes. As these thoughts 
revolved in his mind, he sat with his face buried in hra 
hands, bowed down with the weight of self-humiliation. 

Victorine could not see his countenance, but she could see 
his bowed attitude, and hear the deep sighs, that mingled 
with the soft moaning of the night-breeze. Indignation in- 
stantaneously melted into sorrow. She sat down beside him, 
and put her hand on his hot brow. “ Oh ! what a pity,” 
she exclaimed, “ that you will not let us love you as we 
might — that you will not be happy, as you ought. We 
might live in such love and harmony : such a charming 
family of brothers and sisters ; such a sweet, angelic mo- 
ther ; so many blessings, and so many friends ! And then, 
to crown the whole, such a gracious God to watch over and 
love us. Look up, Homer, let us try to be happy once more. 
Let us forget and forgive what we have both said. I have 
been too much excited, and carried my resentment too far.' 

“Forgive yotf,” cried he, clasping his arms around her, 
with a wildness and impetuosity that made her tremble— 

‘ I do not merit this gentleness. I deserve nothing but in- 
dignation and wrath. I know I am unworthy of your love, 
and that I have come like a dark shadow over your loveli- 
ness and youth. And yet, Victorine, if you only knew how 
I love you ; if you could look into my heart, and see the 
intensity, the idolatry of my passion ; if you could know, 
while I am torturing you, what agony I am enduring my- 
self, you would pity me as the veriest wretch that ever lived. 
Would to heaven that I had shut out the first thought of 
love — that I had never dared to dream of the possibility of 
your loving me ; that I had not encroached on your gentle 
and pitying nature, and forced you into communion with a 
spirit like mine. I know that I can never make you happy , 
that I must ever be subject to these paroxysms of madness, 
and that I ought at this moment to resign you for ever ; and 
yet the rending asunder of body and soul must be less painful 
than the idea of such a separation.” 

Victorine listened tearful and agitated to these impassioned 
words, and felt herself borne up, on the strong current of his 
emotions, nix' ve all selfish considem^*^. She cared not 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


242 

whether she was happy herself or not. She wished Home! 
had never loved her, so unwisely, so passionately, so jea- 
lously ; but since he did so love her, she would endeavour 
to bear with patience the infirmities of hi?« nature. She 
would repress the delight, pure and innocent as i^ was, that 
she felt in Edmund’s society, rather than inflict upon him 
one voluntary pang. She would close every avenue to jea- 
lousy, with golden bars that could not corrode. Every look, 
word, and motion should be schooled to the discipline he 
required. In this self-sacrificing, martyr-like mood, she 
was willing to be stretched on the bed of Procrustes, to be 
tortured into any shape or form, provided she could secure 
the happiness of Homer. 

Victorine forgot that she was the child of impulse, and 
that she could no more guard herself from its influence, 
Jian the young flower can resist the gale that bows its pliant 
stem. 



\ 


AUITT PATTY^S SCRAP-BAG. 


CHAPTER X. 

Have you ever seen a clearing-up shower ? How, after 
ft long, dreary storm, when the clouds have been gathering 
and apparently dispersing, then gathering again, coming 
down in a heavy, drizzling rain, a darker cloud condenses, 
the lightning burns on its blackness, the thunder bursts 
from its bosom, and the drops fall thick and plashing till 
they mingle in one broad sheet of water, threatening to 
deluge the earth ? Suddenly, the clouds roll back, the blue 
sky trembles through the chasm, then the sun shines forth 
in its glory ; the birds fly warbling from their coverts, the 
frees shake the rain-drops from their green leaves, the 
flowers lift up their fair heads, looking timidly towards 
heaven, and all nature rejoices as in the morning of its na- 
tivity. Then follow long genial days of sunshine, sun- 
shine without a shade, save here and there a solitary white 
cloud, floating gently along, till it melts in the soft tran- 
quillity of blue. There are clearing-up showers in the 
moral world, also; when long lowering doubts and sullen 
suspicions gather into the thunder cloud of passion, which 
discharges its electric fires, and leaves the heart purified 
and invigorated. 

Victorine now rejoiced in this moral sunshine, and 
smiled, sang, and sported once more. Bask awhile in this 
sunshine, thou child of sunny France, and let thy young 
spirt bathe joyously in its beams ; for the dark hour may 
yet come, and the sunshine depart, and the air blow chill on 
thy soul. 

Do you remember the arbour where Homer and Victo- 
rine sat, the night of the clearing-up shower ? Will you 
walk there again, in the calm, glowing twilight, and take a 
seat by the two, who sit there side by side, in the shadow 
of those clustering vines ? Do not imagine that it is Homer 
and Victorine, lingering still on the trysting spot of their 


243 

ft 

i 

»/ 


244 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


reconciliation. It is Frank and Bessy, — and by the soft 
and pensive hour, the retired, romantic place, it may be 
supposed, they have met to converse on softie sentimental 
theme, and that Vivian has been thus soon supplanted ; so 
fickle is the heart of woman deemed. Will you listen, as 
their voices sound low, in the hush of that still hour, and 
decide upon the truth and constancy of Bessy? They 
have been sitting there all the time yon bird has beer 
singing its vesper hymn to the God of the twilight ; and 
yeu must discover the secret of their past conversation by 
the words they are now uttering. 

“ No, Frank,” said Bessy, making a kind of fairy lattice- 
work of the tendrils of the vine, “ I know that my feelings 
will never change. I grant that all you say is true, that 
his absence is inexplicable, perhaps unjustifiable, and that 
I may be doomed to waste the season of youth and hop», in 
the sadness of memory. I have always loved you as a 
friend, and had no being come, who awakened all the capa- 
bilities my heart has of loving, 1 might have been satisfied 
with this gentle feeling, not knowing that a stronger and 
deeper existed within me. But now it is all in vain. 
Don’t speak of it again, Frank. It makes me very un- 
happy. It fills me with a sense of injustice and wrong, 
and yet, if I know my own heart, I have never deceived 
you. In my wish to be ingenuous, I fear I have sacrificed 
delicacy to truth, and made an avowal which ought to cover 
me with blushes.” 

The sweet roses of modesty did bloom most beautifully 
for a few moments on Bessy’s cheek. The hue of the rose 
had lately been wanting there. 

“ Fool that I was,” exclaimed Frank, “ not to think of 
this before Vivian came. I never cared about any one but 
you ; but because I was a foolish, hair-brained youth, that 
liked to make people laugh, you thought I could not think 
and feel deeply. I did not know how deeply and strongly 
I could feel myself, till I met that Vivian here, and found 
him monopolizing you, as all his own. If I had only been 
first to speak, for I was first to love ! He paints divinely, 
It is true — but who couldn’t paint you, Bessy ? I could 
make an angel of you myself, with one stroke of the pencil, 
writes charming poetry — so can I. 1 made more than 


AUNT PITTy’s scrap-bag. 


245 


fifty verses on you las: night. I never wrote any in my 
life, till you inspired me. Bessy, you could make a 
painter, a poet, or an orator of me, perhaps a great and good 
man. If you cast me off, I shall be nothing but a discon- 
tented, moping bachelor, who will not live out half his 
days.” 

“ Now, dear Frank, pray listen to me one moment, even 
as to a sister ; and do not be angry, or think I mock your 
constancy. But I know your nature, and know that disap 
pointment cannot long rest heavily on you. You will 
throw off the weight and feel lighter and happier from con- 
trast : and there is one, Frank, whom you have known as 
long as you have me, ten thousand times better the n I am ; 
who might indeed make you a great and good man, and 
whose affections might possibly be won. By and by. all 
you now feel for me will pass away like" a dream of the 
morning ; every thing earthly will pass away, but she, if 
you would love her, Frank, she would lead you gently up 
to heaven, where there are no dreams to delude, but all is 
glorious reality.” 

Bessy sighed, and passed her hand over her brow, wish- 
ing she had the same calm, angelic temperament of her 
sister Emma. Frank crushed the grass under his feet ; 
pulled off the twigs of the bower, and strewed them on the 
ground ; then rose and walked backward and forward as 
far as the length of the arbour would permit, but finding 
himself compelled to turn too often, he sat impatiently 
down. 

“ Don’t talk to me of another,” said he. “I know 
whom you mean ; she’s a dear, good girl, but no more to 
be compared to you than a glow-worm to a star. I am 
not thinking of myself now. I don’t care for myself. If 
you were happy, I could willingly hang myself to-mor- 
row. But when I hear you sigh, and look up so sadly, I 
feel as if a two-edged sword were passing through my 
body. I’ll tell you one thing, Bessy, if it’s the last breath 
I have to utter ; if that ivian does prove to be a rascal, as 
I’m terribly afraid he is. I’ll shoot him, if they put a halter 
on my neck the next moment.” 

“ Don’t shoot me, Frank,” cried Estelle laughing, and 
catching his last words, as she bounded into the arbour. 

16 


246 AUNT patty’s Scrap-bag. 

“Bessy, mother says yoti mustn’t stay here any lo.ng’ef, foi 
the dew is beginning to fall. Aunt Patty wants you to civ. 
out some more hexagons for her bed-quilt ; and I want you 
to press those flowers for me, I gathered this morning. 
Everybody wants you in be house.” 

“Not Homer, if Victonne is near,” said Frank. 

“No, perhaps not,” answered Estelle, thoughtfully; 
“ they are reading a book together — and Mr. Selwyn is 
showing some pictures to Emma, and explaining them all 
beautifully. But Edmund — I know Edmund wants you, 
for he is sitting alone, looking so serious, with his head 
leaning on his hand, just so;” and she rested her blooming 
cheek pensively on the palm of her right hand. Estelle 
ran before them, to gather flowers, sweeter than ever at 
that dewy hour. 

Frank said in a low voice to Bessy, “ Do you know 
what I have been thinking lately ? What if Edmund 
should love Victorine !” 

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Bessy, so loud that Es- 
telle dropped her flowers, and looked round, — but the next 
moment she was on the wing. “ Heaven forbid !” con- 
tinued Bessy, in a lower, more earnest tone. “What 
wretchedness would it bring on himself! What miseiy on 
others ! Breathe not such a supposition in Homer’s ear, 
if you would not drive him mad.” 

“Fear not, Bessy; 1 have more consideration than you 
think I have. But I am vexed, that Homer took it into 
nis gloomy head to fall in love with Victorine, while Ed- 
mund was away. He isn’t fit to be a lover. She thinks 
she loves him, because he was the first one that evei 
bowed at her shrine ; and she was proud of taming such a 
lion. But she fears him now, more than she loves him^ 
and at the bottom of her heart, I know she must often 
wish that Edmund had wooed her, instead of Homer. 
W^ho could help loving Edmund ? I do not think it any 
disgrace for a girl to fall in love with him, even un- 
authorized and unasked. His every glance and smile 
have witchery in them. Victorine’s too — such a splen- 
did girl ! I was terribly smitten with her myself, 
once, when I saw hf r in that flowered frock. Such an 
.eye ! such a mouth ! If it had not been for you i 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


247 


should certainly have rivalled Homer. Fool that I -was, 
to let thaty 

Frank bit his lips, and Bessy could not forbear to smile, 
though the new idea, which he had suggested with re- 
gard to Edmund, filled her with alarm. She had been so 
selfishly absorbed in her own regrets and sorrows, she had 
scarcely noticed what was passing around her. She re- 
proached herself for her want of sympathy ; her forgetful* 
ness of the happiness of others. When she entered the 
house, she took a seat by Edmund, who sat as Estelle had 
described, apart and abstracted ; with a paler cheek and 
sadder brow than she had seen him wear since his re- 
turn. “ How forgetful, how neglectful have I been,” 
thought she, “ of this dear, irreproachable brother of 
mine ! How completely swallowed up in self ! Shall I 
brood in sullen secrecy over the image of a stranger, ob- 
livious of one whom I have always loved with such idoliz- 
ing affections ? and he too may be unhappy !” 

These self-reproachful thoughts gave an inexpressible 
softness to her countenance, and tenderness to her manner,, 
as, seated closely at his side, she leaned her arm in his lap, 
and her radiant ringlets glittered on his breast. There 
was something so endearing in her attitude, so supplicating 
in her look, so beautiful and graceful in her whole appear- 
ance, that Edmund gazed upon her for a moment as upoa 
a lovely picture ; then putting his arm around her, he 
drew her closer to him, and the shadow passed away from 
his brow. Estelle came running in, with her white apron 
full of flowers, and sitting down on the carpet the other 
side of him, began to arrange them into groups. “ Stop,” 
cried Laura, approaching them. “ Don’t move, any of 
you ; you must be attitudinizing for a picture. I never 
saw any thing so pretty in my life. 1 wish Viv -u was 
here. Don’t you, Bessy ?” 

“No: she don’t,” answered Estelle, covering Bessy s 
short, quick sigh with the sound of her eager voice. 
“ She wouldn’t beg him to stay when I asked her ; and 
she didn’t even bid him good-by. I don’t like Mr 
A^ivian at all, for not staying and painting Aunt Patty and 
me, when he’d got the big canvas all ready. I heard 
Aunt Patty tell i^ssy, the other day, if he did come back, 


248 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

not to have any thing more to say to him ; for she lilt ed 
Frank the best, after all.’’ 

“And did Aunt Patty say that,” exclaimed Frank. 
“ Bless the dear old soul ! I’ll go, this minute, and take a 
pinch of snuff with her, and praise her bed-quilt till my 
tongue aches.” 

“ Wait for me,” cried Estelle ; and gathering her 
dowers up in her apron, she scattered some of the rosea 
over Edmund’s and Bessy’s head, and flew off with Frank, 
to give the rest to her beloved Aunt Patty. 

“ Edmund,” cried Laura, “ you are really growing dull. 
You don’t think of making yourself agreeable; you 
have given up all our pleasant walks and rides, except 
a walk in the rain, sometimes. I don’t believe any 
one cares about my company. I mean to go home to- 
morrow.” ' 

“ No !” said Edmund, catching, by sympathy, her 
gay tone. “I plead guilty to your charge, but I will 
redeem my character. I will plan a voyage to the 
moon, if it please you ; or a walk to the summit of Mont 
Bianc.” 

“When you run oft’ into impossibles, I know you 
don’t mean to do any thing. If you would plan an excur- 
sion to yonder mountain,” — and she pointed to the blue 
outline of one that gracefully undulated in the distance, on 
the still, glowing horizon, — “ there would be some gallantry, 
and practicability, too, in the act.” 

“ Your word shall be law !” cried he. “ I have been on 
the summit, and a more enchanting prospect never opened 
on the ravished eye. The ascent is steep, but the difficulty 
only adds interest to the expedition. We can ride to the 
foot of the mountain, and then begin our pedestrian journey. 
But it will never dc foi you, Laura ; for you cannot go in 
satin slippers, and you never deign to wear any thing of 
grosser materials.” 

“ O yes : I would wear wooden shoes, for the sake of the 
novelty. I am willing to put on a home-spun frock, if you 
will promise to escort me to that delightful place. I am 
actually dying of ennui, and the very thought of some- 
thing new, gives me new life. Bessy, will you go ? 
Abstracted Mr. Homer, and sentimental Miss Victorine, 


AUNT patty’s scrap- bag. 249 

will you go ? Good Mr. Selwyn, and grave Miss Emma* 
will you go ?” 

She went gayly from on) to the other, making low, slid- 
ing courtesies, without waiting for an answer ; and laugh- 
ing at their sudden look of curiosity. 

“Go where?” a.ked Homer; alarmed at the thought 
of a party of pleasure. 

“ To that mountain, which always reminds me of Ossian’s 
ghosts, in its mantle of mist,” answered Bessy. 

“ If the mountain cannot come to us, I suppose we can 
go to the mountain,” said Mr. Selwyn, with an assenting 
smile ; and the rest of the evening was employed in 
arranging this romantic excursion. 

They all went out to have a better view of the azure- 
'Crowned peak, and lingered till evening set a brilliant 
diamond on its brow, and then another, till it was encirclea 
by a sparkling handeau of starry gems. Beautiful did it 
look, invested with the regality of heaven, in the stillness 
of the midsummer night. 

“ What was the name of this beautiful mountain ?” per- 
haps some young geographer may ask ; tracing the out- 
lines of the map of imagination, undecided where to pause. 
Its name might be told, — for it has a name, and it was 
baptized with the mists of morning, and the dews of even- 
ing, — and it is a sweet, euphonious name, given by the 
Indians, who once hunted at its base. But let it now be 
incog. 

Reader ! art thou a stranger, far from the home of thy 
childhood, and the scenes of thy youth? Does not the 
thought of the green fielis and blue hills of thy native 
soil make thy pulses quicken, and thy cheek glow? 
Do you not seem to sit once more under the shade of some 
dear, familiar tree, planted by the hand of your forefathers, 
and feel the same gale that fanned your infant brow, rust- 
ling through its leaves ? In the horizon that bounded your 
vision, was there one lone hill, rising, like an angel’ 
throne, above the valley that encircled it, which caught the 
first gleam of the rising sun, and arrested its last purple 
ray ? And has not your mother direc ted your young eye 
to its summit, and talked to you of the days of old, when 
'God came down upon the moun*»**'^, and hallowed them 


250 


AUNT PATTY^S SCRAP-BAG 


with His presence? Of Sinai, with its thuri4ers and 
lightnings, and thick smoke; of Nebo, where the aged 
prophet sat and gaztd upon that land he was not per- 
mitted to enter; or of Calvary, once stained with the 
Redeemer’s blood ? If there is one spot among the granite 
hills, round which such associations cluster, imagine 
this to be the same, and it will be sacred in your 
eyes. 

By the rising sun, — no: it was long before the ris- 
ing sun, that Estelle wakened, roused her sisters, and 
knocked at her brother’s door. They were to have a 
very early breakfast, so as to start before the heat of the 
day commenced. She had hardly closed her eyes the 
whole night, she was so excited at the thought of climbing 
to the tip-top of a mountain, and seeing their own home, 
too, through a telescope, after she reached there. She felt 
taller, older, and wiser. She made Aunt Patty promise to 
sit with her head out of the window all day, so that she 
could see her too. If she had asked her to step out of the 
window, on the mountain-top, she would involuniarilv have 
answered, “Yes;” for she never dreamed of saying 
to Estelle. The young party were in readiness long 
before the horses and carriages came to the door, though 
Laura was the last to make her appearance, as usual, all 
d la mode. 

“Now, Laura, you know you can’t clamber up the 
mountain in that dress,” cried Frank. “ Whoever heard 
of one’s putting on a fine, fashionable silk, to jump about 
among the rocks and shrubs ? Those kid slippers, too, 
and lace stockings ! Look at Emma and Bessy : — they 
can frisk about as they please, without danger of leaving 
half their clothes behind them. I beg pardon, — I don’t 
believe Emma ever \^as guilty of friskiness in her 
life.” 

“ It is difficult to frisk about, as you say, Frank, with a 
feeble body,” said Emma, with a gentle smile ; “ but I feel 
so much stronger and h*tter now, than I once did, I don’t 
think I shall consent to slay in that little cave half-way up^ 
where you talk of deposi ing me.” 

“Forgive me, Emma, I didn’t mean to remind you 
of one iiJ ^ mortality, this delightful morning. You 


AtJNt MttV's SCRAP-BAG. 251 

looked so bright and rosy, that I forgot you were the 
invalid.” 

“ She's thinking of what a charming ride she will have 
with Mr. Selwyn,” said Laura. “If I were Emma, I 
should be tired to death of such an old beau.” 

“How ridiculous! to call Mr. Selwyn a heau,” ex- 
claimed Emma, with some asperity; “and always to be 
calling him old. He is very far from being an old 
man ; and he has all the warmth and enthusiasm of 
youth, still.” 

“I dare say he has,” said Frank, laughing; “and he 
is one of the finest-looking men I ever saw. If I were 
injured, I would go to him for redress. If I were weak, 
for protection ; if poor, for relief. There, Emma, I have 
made a speech expressly for you. As for Laura’s call- 
ing him old, it is nothing but spite, — ^just as children 
call ever}'’ thing old out of their reach. You remember 
ihe little boy, who told his mother he hated and despised 
that old cake, when she was resolute in denying it to 
aim.” 

Here Frank stopped, and burst into a louder laugh at 
the sight of Estelle, with a basket on her arm half as 
large as herself. 

“ What do you ask for your butter, chickens, and eggs, 
my little market-woman ?” cried he, trying to peep under 
the lid, to her great displeasure. 

“You are so rude, Frank,” cried she, pushing him 
back with a dignified air. “You always pull every 
thing, so. I won’t give you any, if you don’t let my 
basket alone.” 

“ Well, if I can’t use one sense, I can another; and the nose 
IS as good as the eyes, sometimes. You’ve got something 
there that smells very inviting, so I’ll be on my” good beha- 
viournow. You look like a sweet little flower-girl with 
that basket hanging gracefully” on your arm, Estelle.” 

“ Oh, I was a big, old, ugly market-woman, just now 
You change your fine too quick. Master Frank,” cried tha 
child, archly curling her ruby lip. 

“ I’m glad to see you in such fine spirits, Frank,” said 
Edmund. 

“All forced,” replied he, sighing, but his dpep sigh only 


252 AUirr patty’s scrap-bag. 

made others smile ; “ and yet there is something exhilarating 
in rising so early, breathing the clear morning air, and 
having the prospect of a fine ride, a fine dinner on the 
mountain, and ever so many charming adventures.” 

“ Oh, yes !” said Bessy, with one of her Jong-absent, 
sunny smiles, “ we must have some adventures, indeed. 
Victorine shall be the gipsy of our party tlomer the seer, 
and I will be the prophetess ; and oh ! cn visions of glory 
will I call up, that you will all pray me to spare your aching 
sight.” 

“ Frank and I will be your knights,” said Edmund, re- 
joicing in Bessy’s returning sunshine ; “ Laura and Emma 
two ladies fair — and Estelle” — 

“ Our little market-woman,” added Frank. 

Here Mr. Seiwym drove up to the door, in a splendid 
landau, which he had brought from Europe, and which 
had excited the admiration of the country people. His 
noble and aristocratic appearance, corresponded well with 
me elegance of his equipage ; and the fashionable Laura 
would not have disdained a seat at his side. But the hand 
was first held out to Emma, who sprang in so lightly, 
that Frank might have accused her of being guilty of 
iriskiness. 

“Who else?” said Mr. Selwyn, looking smilingly on the 
fair faces in the doorway. 

“Me,” cried Estelle, tugging along with’ her basket, “ I 
want to ride in that carriage.” 

Estelle seemed to flutter through the air, so quickly 
did Mr. Selwyn accomplish her wish, and, laughing and 
triumphant, she looked up to Aunt Patty, who, seated 
in her arm-chair, beheld from her open window the depart- 
ing group. 

Edmund was to accompany Laura and Bessy in the fa- 
mily carriage, Homer and Victorine to ride together in an 
open barouche, and Frank to follow on horseback. 

“ Oh, how I wish mother and Aunt Patty were going,” 
cried Estelle, in the prodigality of her joy; “they would 
have such a nice ride.” 

Mrs. Worth, who stood on the threshold, shook her head 
and smiled, though a tear trembled in her eye. The figure 
of Mr. Selwyn reminded her of her husband ; and the re^ 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 253 

d embrance of her a vn youthful, love-lighted days, rushed 
back upon her soul. 

“ Don’t ride too fi.r up the mountain,” said the anxious 
mother ; “ and, Emna, don’t walk too much ; you must pro- 
mise to rest in the cave.” 

“ I will take excellent care of her,” replied Mr. Selwyn. 

Trust her with me, and she shall return in safety.” 

“ Come back before it is dark,” called out Aunt Pat- 
ty ; “ the carriages may upset, and your necks be bro- 
ken.” 

“ Don’t prophesy evil. Aunt Patty” — cried Edmund, 
kissing his hand to her, in token of adieu — “if you do 
you will be a Cassandra, doomed to be unbelieved.” 

They were just about to give the signal to depart, when 
a man on horseback rode into the yard, and handed a letter 
to Homer. He read it, knit his brow, looked at Victorine, 
and exclaimed : “ How unfortunate ! I am summoned away, 
upon some business connected with my father’s estate, 
which ought to have been attended to long ago. It cannot 
be deferred. What shall I do ?” 

“ Go, by all means,” cried Victorine, springing from the 
barouche, “ I will stay behind.” 

“ Thank, thank you !” exclaimed he, warmly pressing 
the hand which he still held ; “ then it is no disap- 
pointment to me. I did not wish to go, but for your 
sake.” 

“ No, no, Victorine must not stay,” cried every voice but 
Edmund’s; “there is room for her here— and here — and 
here — we will not go without Victorine.” 

“ No — it is better that I should stay, since Homer wishes 
it,” said Victorine, but the flush on her cheek, and the tremor 
of her voice, denied the resignation of her words. Homer 
remained silent, and made figures on the ground with his 
whip. Victorine felt his selfishness more than her disap- 
pointment, and her heart rebelled against him.” 

“Cannot I transact your business, brother?” asked 
Edmund, approaching Homer. “ I shall not be missed half 
as much, for there’s a driver to our carriage, and Laura and 
Bessy will be protr cted by being in company wit ti Mr. Sel- 
wyn and yourself ' 


AUAr patty’s scrap-bag. 


254 

Laura pouted, ai d declared she would not go without g 
gentleman to escort her, and loudly protested against Horner’s 
selfishness. 

“No one can transact the business but myself, as the 
eldest son,” replied Homer, gloomily, watching the changing 
countenance of Victorine ; “ and as no one will regret my 
absence, it matters not to me. Victorine, I will not force 
your inclinations. I see you wish to go, and will probably 
be far happier without me.” 

“ How unjust !” cried Victorine ; “ and all but Edmund 
echoed her words. Victorine cast an appealing glance at 
Mrs. Worth, for direction and decision.' She did not wish 
it supposed that she was so much under the influence 
of Homer, as to fear to act contrary to his selfish will. Her 
high spirit revolted at this thought. Besides, she was an 
impassioned admirer of the beauties of nature, and had 
often longed for wings, that she might perch on that 
mountain’s top — she really longed to go, and her eyes 
expressed this longing in their dark resplendent depths. 

“ Victorine might take Edmund’s seat, and Edmund 
ride on horseback, in company with Frank, as a general 
escort, suggested Mrs. Worth; and the proposition was 
received with acclamations. Homer looked reproachfully, 
even indignantly at his mother, and Laura whispered to 
Bessy that a thunder-storm had risen, and that they had 
better make haste. 

“You are not angry with me, Homer,” said Victorine. 
gently laying her hand on his arm ; “ I would not go, 
indeed,” -added she, in a lower voice, “ if it would not 
look so very strange for me to sta5^ You know it would.” 

“Look !” repeated he, scornfully, drawing away his arm 
from the soft pressure of her hand ; “ always thinking of 
what people will say. I care not what they say, or think, 
or feel. Why do you linger ? They have brought Ed- 
mund’s horse ; they are waiting for you. You are at per- 
fect liberty to do as you please. I was called away very 
(pportunely — very opportunely, indeed.” 

“I agree with you entirely” — cried she, with spirit, 
stung to the soul, jy his bitter, taunting manner. “ Ed- 
mund, will you hand me to the carriage, since Homer ha® 
DfOt the gallantry to do it — a horse on one hand, and a 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 255 

maiden on the other, make you .ook very much like a 
knight.” 

She said this with a smile, as le led her along, but he 
Knew that she was ill at ease, and his own cheek reddened, 
and his heart throbbed. carriages rolled out of the 

yard ; Edmund’s and Frank’s gay horses pranced In the 
rear ; Estelle and Aunt Patty kept nodding to each other 
till a turn in the road concealed the cavalcade from view ; 
and Homer stood with folded arms, and compressed and 
trembling lips, gazing after it. 

At first Edmund rode silently and sadly by the side of 
Frank, and Victorine kept her face studiously turned from 
her companions ; but it w’as impossible to ride silently and 
sadly long, in such glorious sunshine, such genial air, the 
birds singing so joyously over-head, and the landscape 
glowing with such life below. 'Fo ride, too, with such fine 
horses, whose feet kept such perfect time, on the smooth, 
hard, beaten road — there was joy in the motion ; there 
was joy in the mere consciousness of existence. Then the 
spirits of youth are so elastic, and rebound so high after a 
sudden pressure ; it is not strange, that every cloud dis- 
persed, and that nothing was heard but merry voices, and 
nothing seen but smiling faces. 

The road grew more rough and rocky as they approached 
the mountain, which began withn gentle acclivity, growing 
gradually more and more steep, till they came to a kind 
of green platform, where they considered it expedient to 
leave their carriages, and continue their journey on foot. 
Emma cast an anxious glance up the precipitous path, 
which seemed, in some places, perpendicular, and thought 
she might possibly welcome the cave, as a cool resting- 
place. Laura looked down on her delicate slippers, and 
thought it possible the sharp rocks might wound her feet. 
Estelle looked at her basket, and thought it might feel too 
heavy before she reached the top, but she could not be per-» 
suaded to leave it behind. The rest felt too much like 
young eagles, longing to try the strength of their wings, 
and to fly nearer the dwelling of the sun, to be daunted by 
the prospect of danger, difficulty, or fatigue. Bessy and 
Victorine, eluding the arris that would have assisted theil 
ascent, leaped from rock to rock, and swung from bough to 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


bough, in all the joy of independence. Their spintt^, 
were both more buoyant from the pressure that hai been 
weighing them down. What if their dresses did get 
caught by the br».nbles, and the sharp points of the rocks T 
They were not afraid of their being tom, and went laughing 
on. But, poor Laura ! she ijft here and there a shred of 
silk, and a shred of lace ; her shoes slipped down at the 
heel ; her lace stockings burst into large holes, and she was 
ready to cry with vexation. Her only consolation was in 
clinging to Edmund’s arm, whom she compelled to lift her 
up every steep rock, and over every narrow chasm. Frank 
laughed at her dishevelled appearance, and bid her admire 
the superior grace and activity of her companions, who 
paused sometimes in their airy journey, and looked back, 
with glowing cheeks and triumphant eyes. 

“ How far is it to the cave ?” asked Emma, panting for 
breath, and pale from fatigue. “ I am afraid I can go no 
farther.” 

“ It is but a little distance, on the right hand,” cried 
Edmund ; “ keep up your spirits a little longer. I think 
I hear the gurgling of the spring that gushes near.” 

“ You have not leaned on me, as you ought,” said Mr. 
Selwyn. “ I could have carried you as easily as I could a 
child.” 

“Oh, no!” cried Emma, the colour coming back to her 
face. “ I have taxed you too much already.” 

But before she had time to resist the motion, she was 
cradled lightly on his left arm and borne along, amidst the 
shouts of Frank and the merry laughter of her other com- 
panions. Edmund was right — the gurgling waters of the 
spring did murmur in their ears, and in a few moments 
they saw the mouth of the moss-covered cave — a natural 
inn kept by kind nature herself, for the refreshment of 
the weary traveller. As soon as Mr. Selwyn had re- 
leased the abashed but grateful Emma, he w’ent kindly 
back for little Estelle, who was too much of a heroine to 
complain; but whose short, hard breathing, and scarlet 
cheeks, showed the efforts she was making to achieve ner 
own ascent. 

“ 1 cannot go one step arther,” cried Laura, throwing 
herself downa on a rock ; my shoes are both burst open,. 


AUNT PATT\'*S SCRAP- BAG. 


257 


my stockings torn off my fee% and my frock all ripped and 
dropping to pieces. What a horrible road ! what bnars 
and rocks ! It is not fit for a Christian to travel. I’m sure 
I wish I never had thought this old mountain.” 

“ Those young heathen look very comfortable,” saiG 
Mr. Selwyn smiling, and looking towards Victorine and 
Bessy, who had thrown their bonnets on the ground, and, 
leaning over the spring, scooped the cold tvater in the 
hollow of their white hands, and drank it with laughing 
eagerness. Their plain, white linen robes fell in un- 
tattered and graceful folds to the edge of the stream, and 
the contrast of their beautiful hair, as their heads touched 
each other — golden brown, and raven black, twining and 
curling together-— could not be more strikingly displayed. 

“Wait,” cried Estelle. “I have a silver cup in my 
basket, which I brought on purpose to drink out of;” and 
lifting the mysterious lid, she proudly drew it forth, and 
claimed the office of cUp-bearer to the rest. They all 
declared that the nectar of Jupiter was not half as refresh- 
ing as that cool draught of water from the silver cup ; and 
that his blooming Hebe, could not be named in the same 
day with theirs. • They admired the symmetrical arch of 
the cave, the green velvet of the moss, that variegated the 
gray of the rock ; the sweet sound of the gushing spring, 
and wished they were hermits, that they might live there, 
free from the cares and troubles of the world. There was 
a large flat rock in the centre of the cave, which looked 
like a natural table, and broken pieces of rock scattered 
around, which answered all the purposes of chairs. Emma 
was delighted with the thoughts of remaining there, and 
produced Ossian’s poems, which she had brought on pur- 
pose to read in that congenial cave ; but Laura sat gloomily 
on a rock, her feet gathered under the skirt of her tattered 
dress, declaring they should never catch her on a moun- 
tain again, as long as she lived ; she was afraid too, to stay 
in that lonely cave, afraid of robbers, snakes, and wild 
beasts. Mr. Selwyn offered to remain and guard the 
cave* but Emma would not listen to this proposition, as she 
expected a servant every moment, with the materials for a 
void collation, which thej were all to partake, when they 
descended, and that servant would he a sufficient prote^- 


2o8 AONT patty’s scrap-bag. 

tion. She and Laura would surpri. e them with a “table 
spread in the wilderness,” and ther wanted no witnesses 
to the mystery of preparation. Este .le lingered a moment, 
hesitating whether to go or stay, but the pride of looking 
through a telescope at length decided her, and committing 
her basket, with a long whisper, to the care of Emma, she 
took Mr. Selwyn’s hand and recommenced her journey, in 
high spirits. Frank caught Bessy’s arm, before she could 
begin her bird-like flight, and she was soon obliged to 
ackno\^^edge, that she could not have dispensed with his 
aid, so steep and tangled did the path become. Edmund 
and Victorine were thus inevitably thrown together, though 
they had both endeavoured to avoid the contact. Victo- 
rine was at first painfully embarrased, from the remem- 
brance of her last conversation with Homer, whose stem, 
melancholy countenance seemed bending above, reproach- 
ing her for her innocent enjoyment.. But embarrassment 
was soon lost in excitement ; sometimes, when she thought 
she had secured a firm footing on the rocky steps, and a 
firm hold of the slender boughs that shaded the way-side, 
her foot would slip, and the bough Avou4d break, and had 
it not been for the arm of Edmund, she would have fallen 
down the natural ladder they were ascending. Some- 
times, they rested on a cradling branch, that curved over 
the path, and Edmund made a fan of the leaves, to cool 
her glowing cheeks. He could have done no less for a 
sister, and yet Victorine knew, if Homer should unex- 
pectedly emerge from the thick woods that skirted the 
path, he would renew the accusation, whose remembrance 
still thrilled through her heart. Perhaps, too, Edmund 
blamed her for coming. He alone had been silent, when 
every other voice urged and insisted. She began to blame 
herself, for exposing herself to his blame, and impulsively 
she gave utterance to her feelings. 

“ I fear you think I was wrong, not to yield to Homer’s 
wishes,” said she, without lifting her eyes. “You are 
always so ready to sacrifice your wishes to others.” 

“ I suspect Homer himself would have regretted, upon 
reflection, such an unnecessary sacrifice,” replied Ed- 
mund, after a slight pause. “ In h 3 cooler moments, be ia 
ilways jusf and generous.” 


AUHT patty’s scrap-bag. 


250 


“ Ah . but his cooler moments ” — come so seldom, she 
was about to add, when she checked the expression. 
There was something in Edmund's countenance, that for- 
bade all conversation on this subject ; something so foreign 
to its usual ingenuousness, that it repelled and discon- 
certed her. 

“Let us go on,” said she rising; “I am rested now, 
and Estelle is calling to us, from Mr. Selwyn’s shoulder, 
which she has mounted in state; and Bessy and Frank 
have reached the top of the ladder, and are waving their 
handkerchiefs in triumph.” 

Victorine and Edmund soon joined them, and from the 
stepping stones on which they stood, the road rose smoother 
and more inclined. The ascent was comparatively easy — 
the crooked path becoming straight, and the rough one 
grassy. 

“ We must all take a stone in our hands, before we leave 
this rocky ledge,” cried Edmund, “ to add to the pyramid 
on the top of the mountain. There is a complete Stone- 
henge there. Every traveller is obliged to carry one, and 
to engrave his name as a memorial of his presence.” 

They all selected those which had the fairest and 
broadest surface, and, thus laden, pressed on with eager 
footsteps. They could see the summit ; they had promised 
liot to look back, so that the view might burst upon them, 
in one full blaze of beauty, and, more honourable than 
Lot’s wife, they did not break their pledge. 

“ A race !” cried Frank ; “ who shall have the first 
sight ?” 

He started off, with the speed of a fiery colt, but drop 
ping the stone, and pausing to pick it up, Edmund ran by 
and reached the goal, at the same moment with Mr. Seh 
wyn, who had always been in advance. He leaped upon 
the pyramidical stones and waved his hat in the air, in 
token of victory. As he stood thus, his figure defined on 
the clear, blue heavens, his fine hair waving from his 
brow, his cheeks flushed irom exercise and excitement, he 
might have been compared to a young Apollo, just lighted 
on the “ heaven-kissing hill.” 

“I, too, have won the goal,” cried Frank, giving a sud- 
den spring, determined to surpass Edmund, and reach thA 


260 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


top of the mound, at one leap. But not quite accomplish- 
ing his exploit, his feet descended on a sliding stone, 
which, rolling from under him, brought him rolling after it 
to the ground, a monument of “ vaulting ambition, which 
o’erleaps itself.” 

“ Oh ! Frank, are you hurt ?” exclaimed several sweet 
voices, in a breath. 

“No!” cried he, springing up as suddenly as he had 
fallen, and shaking the dust from his coat ; “ I only mea- 
eured myself for your amusement.” 

Frank had every reason to think he had accomplished 
his object, by the peals of laughter which rang through 
the mountain air, in which he joined himself most heartily. 
But mirth was soon absorbed in silent, intense admiration. 
An overpowering sense of beauty and sublimity soberized 
and subdued their gay spirits. It seemed as if they were 
the only dwellers of creation, — so high and lone they 
stood ; so far and still Stretched the world around them ; 
so deep and motionless appeared its repose. The glad 
hum' of life ascended not to them; even the smoke of the 
valley melted in the sun-beams, before it reached their 
height ; and the trees, though they bowed in the breeze, 
only presented to the eye a surface of immovable green. 
Every thing slept below, — but how strong and excellent 
was the wakeful principle of life in their bosoms ! How* 
pure and invigorating the mountain air that floated around 
them, free from the exhalations of earth, uncontaminated 
by the breath of man, and fresh as from the bowers of 
Eden ! No sound was heard, save the wind-organs of that 
mountain cathedral, which stole through its rocky aisles 
and winding corridors, swelling as with the breath of a 
thousand invisible minstrels. 

The mingled exclamations of “ Beautiful ! sublime ! 
glorious !” succeeded the transport of mute admiration. 
Bessy alone continued silent. She could not express her 
emotions ; she felt too near heaven, to use the language of 
earth. The divine spell of poetry was upon her, and her 
eyes kindled with inspiration. 

“Look at Bessy !” cried Frank; “she’s making poetry, 
{ know. That’s the way she looks when she’s inspired.” 

“Well, give me pencil and paper,” said she, smiling, 


AITNT patty’s SCRAP-BAG. 


261 


“ and I will go to that shaded spot yonder, and if you will 
promise not to disturb me, I will try to do homage, in 
measured verse, to the lone spirit of the mountains.” 

“ Here’s pencil and paper,” answered he ; “ but I know 
It is only a stratagem to be alone. Remember, if you re- 
turn without the poetry, all the thunders of Olympus will 
reverberate round your head.” 

She turned away, laughing, towards the little cove 
that she promised should be converted into a Parnas- 
sian grove, and the lovely muse soon vanished from 
their sight. 

“ Now, please let me look through the telescope,” said 
Estelle. “Aunt Patty will get tired, sitting so long at the 
window.” 

Mr. Selwyn took a cylinder from his pocket, and 
drawing it out to a surprising length, considering its 
original size, placed it in the direction of the home- 
stead. 

“This is only a pocket telescope,” said he, “but it 
IS a very powerful one ; and if you look very steadily, 
perhaps you can see Aunt Patty take a pinch of 
snuff.” 

Estelle shut up one eye, and strained the other open 
wider than she had ever done before ; but she could 
only see a glimmering of sunshine through a round 
frame. She was ashamed, however, to acknowledge a 
complete failure, and said she saw something that looked 
like Aunt Patty, but she was not quite certain. Victo- 
rine’s steadier gaze beheld, indeed, the white walls 
they had so recently left, gleaming through the trees. 
She held the glass, and sought to guide Estelle’s waver- 
ing glance. 

“What do you see, now?” 

“ I see Aunt Patty’s profile.” 

“ O no : that is a chimnt y you are looking at. You 
must give up the idea of steing her, from this distance, 
but see the spires of the churches ; see the dome of the 
academy ; and look all around, — how many beautiful towns 
are lying at our feet !” 

Estelle soon became tired of shutting up one eye, and 
straining the other to look through so narrow a compass, 
17 ' 


262 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

irhen nature, like a gorgeous map, was unrolled for he? 
gaze. She became tired of standing, too; and, sitting 
down on the pile of stones, began to think how tiresome 
it would be to go down the steep places they had climbed 
with so much difficulty. She was sorry she had not stayed 
with Emma and Laura, in the moss-covered cave, by the 
side of the bubbling spring. She was sorry she had left 
her basket behind, — a piece of cake would taste so pleasant 
on the top of those old, gray stones. ' 

“What are you doing, Erank?” inquired Edmund, 
approaching him, as he knelt on one knee, bending over 
the ground. 

“ I am only immortalizing your names, by engraving 
them on the rocks,” replied he. “I am writing them 
impromptu. I have no occasion to retire to a grove, to 
compose, like Bessy.” 

Edmund looked over his shoulder and read, laughingly, 
the couplets traced on the stones with the point of his 
penknife. 

“ Here is the name of Bessy Worth, 

The iairesi nymph of all the earth !” 

Well done for Bessy. Its a pity she hasn’t a mor p*;>et,cal 
name. 

‘ And next to her is Vietorine, 

A ia Fran§oise, — our gipsy queen. 

Why, Frank, you must be inspired, as wek as Bessy 

‘ Here is the prudent. M’ise EstelF. 

With chickens, butler, eggs to sell.’ ” 

“ An’t you ashamed to put that there, Frank, where it 
will last for ever ?” cried Estelle, angrily ; “ and where 
everybody can see it, as long as 1 .hve ?” 

“Never mind, Estelle,” said Edmund; “ hear what he 
savs of himself — 

‘ The immortal name of Francis Wharton, - 
The greatest poet ever thought on.’ ” 

“You made that yourself, as you read, Edmund ; but it 
IS worthy to written on everlasting tablets. Your own 
needs no epithet to speak its worth ; and I dare not jest 
with the leye^.d name of Selwyn. Let us go and peep as 


AtJlTT patty’s scrap-bag. * 263 

Bessy in her Parnassian grove, and see whether the muse* 
are gathered round her.” 

Bessy had wandered from the reat, not so much to 
write, as to think and commune with her own glowing 
thoughts. The remembrance of Vivian rose painfully 
before her, in view of such magnificent scenery, — scenery 
which a pencil like his, alone, could delineate. She re- 
called the eloquence, the passion of his language ; the soul 
that flushed from his shifting glances ; and sighed to think 
how dull and common-place every other being seemed in 
comparison. “ I will not dwell on recollections like these,” 
said she to herself, sitting down upon a rock, and spreading 
♦he paper upon her knee. “ I will yield myself to the 
holy influences of nature, who smiles so kindly on hei 
wayward child.” 

The holy influences of nature, thus wooed, breathed or 
the imagination of Bessy ; and, with the look of a young 
sibyl, she began her poetical tribute to the genius of tht 
mountain. Thus flowed the invocation : — 

Beautiful mountain ! like an eastern king 
Thou wear’st thy diadem of burning gold. 

While the rich hues the shifting sun-beanis fling 
In purple royalty, are round thee roll’d. 

“And thou art beautiful, when dark-brow’d night 
Comes, with her silver chandelier, to throw 
A starry mantle o’er thee : — Oh ! how bright, 

Through the soft gloom its folds of glory flow ! 

‘ Most lovely thou ! when, kneeling at thy feet, 

Half veil’d in mist, the blushing morn is seen; 

When wakening gales thy regal presence greet. 

And dewy flowers from their green couches lean. 

“ Beautiful mountain ! image of the soul. 

Rising, serene, above the clouds of time ; 

Girdled with light, though clouds beneath it roll, 

Lookihg to heaven, immovable, sublime. 

“ The sun-beims love thee ! for their brightest ray. 

At morn and even, linger on thy brow , 

The night-dews love thee ! — nature’s pearls, tlrey lay.. 
Melting, in smiles, on every forest bough. 

“ Beautiful mountain 

Bessy paused, and looked upward ; the warmth, lAa 
emliusiasm of genius glowed on her face. She pushed 


264 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


back tlie tresses that clustered too thickly ove^ ner brow, 
and repeated, aloud, “ Beautiful mountain !’* A soft, low 
sigh seemed to come, like the echo of her words. She 
started, and the pencil dropped from her hand. Was it a 
dream of the imagination, or a figure of flesh and blood, 
diat stood leaning against a rock, not far from the spot 
where she was seated ? One moment she gazed in wild 
surprise ; then, springing forward, forgot every thing in 
the rapture of that sudden recognition. “ Vivian !” — 
“Bessy!” — The next moment she was in the arms of 
Vivian, and their hearts, lately sundered, throbbing against 
each other, as if they were never again to separate. Per- 
haps, had they met thus suddenly in a house “ made with 
hands,” the formalities of life would have kept them apart, 
and they would have passed each other coldly and silently. 
But here, in the midst of the loneliness, and grandeur, and 
freedom of nature, the artificial restraints of society were 
forgotten, and soul answered soul as God created them to- 
do. This celestial communion, however, was of short 
duration. Bessy was brought back, only too soon, to the 
hard realities of life. 

“Bessy, Bessy, have you finished your poetry?” ex- 
claimed the laughing voice of Frank ; and headed by the 
speaker, the whole party emerged from the shade of the 
rocks and shrubs, and stood rooted with astonishment at 
the sight of Vivian and Bessy hand in hand, still as two- 
statues, carved out of the rock on which they leaned. 
Frank had broken the spell. Vivian drew away his hand 
with a sudden motion. The impassioned expression of 
his countenance changed ; the fire of his eyes was extin- 
guished in the coldness of pride. 

“ Have you dropped from the clouds, Vivian ?” said 
Mr. Selwyn, who rejoiced in the re-appearance of his 
young friend, and whose suspicions as to the cause of his 
departure were now fully confirmed. “We have all reason 
to complain of your neglect, but if you will promise amend- 
ment for the future, we will try to get you absolution fa* 
the past.” 

“Have you been on the mountain, all this time, Mr. 
Vivian?” asked Estelle. “Oh! I know you have beoi» 
jving in the cave, whers Emma is now.” 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag 265 

“I have not quite turned hermit yet,” answered Vivian, 
with an involuntary smile; “though I acknowledge I 
slept last night in the cave. I have been in the neigh- 
Dourhood of the mountain, for several days,” added he, 
turning to Mr. Selwyn, “ where I have been detained by 
indisposition. I could not be resigned to leave the country, 
without witnessing a prospect, of which I have heard so 
much. I was too weary to return last night, and making 
myself a pillow of moss, I reclined very comfortably on my 
bed of rock.” 

“ Leave the country !” exclaimed Edmund. “ I thought 
you intended to remain, till Mr. Selwyn and myself made 
our second tour. I have been thinking, lately, of getting 
Mr. Selwyn to hasten our departure, or to allow me to go 
Defore him, as his avant-courier.^'* 

“You, Edmund!” cried Bessy; “you, so anxious to 
leave us ? How unkind !” She felt that another was un- 
kind too, but her wounded spirit refused to give utterance 
to the thought. 

“You too, Edmund!” echoed the heart of Victorine; 
but she spoke not. The idea that he was about to banish 
himself, for Homer’s sake, took possession of her mind, 
and she wished she had never left the sunny shores of 
F ranee. 

“You, Edmund !” repeated Mr. Selwyn, pressing his 
hand, with a warmth of which he was not aware. He 
read deeply the mysteries of the human heart, and he had 
lately watched him with intense anxiety. He saw that his 
prophecies were being fulfilled, and that if Edmund re- 
mained, a web of inextricable misery would be woven 
around him. “You are right, my boy,” continued he; 
“ and you have reminded me of my duty. If you, when 
manhood is only in its morn, grudge a few hours of in- 
activity, surely I, who have reached its meridian, should 
hoard my moments better. I have devoted myself to the 
service of my country; you to mine, — both, I trust, to the 
service of God. In a few years you will be established in 
professional life ; I shall sigh for retirement and rest. I 
am grateful to my youthful monitor — ” 

The animated approbation of Mr. Selwyn’s manner, the 
cordial pressure of his hand, told Edmund that his motive! 


266 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

were understood and appreciated, and the gratitude ha 
bad before felt, seemed light to that which now filled 
his bosom. 

“Isn’t it time to go back to the cave?” asked tK”? 
weary, hungry Estelle. “ Emma and Laura will be so 
tired waiting for us.” 

“You will come with us, Vivian,” said Edmund. 

“ Vivian will follow with me,” cried Frank. “ 1 w’ 
to speak with him a few moments, if he does not refuse 
me the honour.” 

Bessy turned very pale, and looked at them both in 
alarm. 

“ I have nothing to say,” added Frank, “ which I am 
not willing the whole world should hear : yet, from motives 
of delicacy, I should prefer, for a few moments, his pri- 
vate ear.” 

There was a serious dignity in Frank’s manner, which 
became him well from its novelty, and even Vivian was 
not proof against its influence. 

“ 1 ndshed to speak to you,” said Frank, as soon as 
they were alone, “ because I thought a few words from 
me Tnight explain a very unhappy misunderstanding. 
We parted in anger, and I cannot deceive you by saying 
I like you now ; that, perhaps, I shall never be able to do. 
But I do not want to make you unhappy, without a cause. 
You look upon me as a rival ; I have tried to rival you, 
but in vain ; I thought I had a prior claim to yours, but I 
am mistaken. I am convinced that Bessy can never be 
more to me than a friend. If she is willing to be more to 
you, I will not stand as a stumbling-block, in the way to 
her happiness or yours.” 

There was a manly truthfulness in Frank’s looks and 
manner, that was perfectly irresistible. 

“ I must, I do believe you,” cried Vivian, grasping hia 
hand tvith excessive emotion ; “ but they told me, that you 
had loved each other from childhood ; that you had been 
betrothed for years.” 

“Nothing but a mischievous story, Ud sport with your 
credulity,” cried Frank. “I think I know its source, and 
tdush for it. I suspected, at the time, the cause of your 
fiight, but I was selfish enough to be willing io profit by 


AUNT PaTIV S SCRAP-BAG. 


ii. I tried to take an ungenerous advantage, and have 
been served as I ought. But I did not then kno\T how 
deeply the affections of both were engaged. Thank 
heaven ! I have not discovered it too late.” 

Frank was not given to heroics, but he felt a strange 
choking in the throat, and fulness of the heart, when Vi 
vian wrung his hand, then threw his arm over his shoul- 
der, and actually wept upon his breast. 

“ Do not despise me for my weakness,” $aid he ; “I 
can bear grief, agony, and despair, and have borne it with- 
out a tear, but joy so sadden comple.ely inmans me. 
Oh ! you do not know what wretchedness I hi,ve suffered ; 
what wild, desperate plans I have fonned, vhile flying 
from place to place, seeking in vain to escape from 
myself ; and now hope, joy, ambition, are all new- 
born within me — created again by you. You, so generous, 
so disinterested ! What can 1 say or do, to prove my grati- 
tude ?” 

“Nothing!” replied Frank, wiping the moisture from 
his eyes and brow ; “ it is excessively warm on this moun- 
tain. I said I never should like you, but I begin to do it 
already. If we are not friends before long, it will be your 
own fault. Come, let us follow our companions, for I know 
Bessy’s little heart is palpitating with a thousand fears.” 

When the young men approached arm in arm, Frank’s 
face, scarcely less irradiated than Vivian’s, Bessy could 
scarcely repress the grateful thanksgiving that rose to her 
lips. Nothing had been explained to her, yet she knew 
that all was right, and that Vivian was restored to her once 
more. 

“ Will you accompany us now, Vivian?” said Mr. Sel- 
wyn, extending his hand with a cordial smile. 

“ If you will receive such an ungrateful vagrant among 
you,” answered he, his face reddening, even to his tem- 
ples. 

“ I see no one who looks discouragingly upon you, but 
Bessy. You had better try to propitiate her on our way to 
the cave, or perhaps you will be excluded from its entrance, 
and after fasting all night, I should think you would 
have no objection to share the feast, which I un ■(;& tnd 
the good fairies are preparing for us.” 


268 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

While he was speakings, Mr, Selwyn took Estelle’i 
willing hand, and led the way to thi downward path. 

“ I beheve I will take compassion on you, Frank,” said 
Victorine, laughing and blushing ; “ since Vivian has stolen 
Bessy from you. I am afraid to let you go down the 
mountain alone, lest you should roll to the bottom. I will 
assist Edmund’s noble efforts,” added she, to herself ; “ he 
is the guardian of his brother’s happiness, and I will show 
him how sacred I deem the trust.” 

Edmund lingered behind the rest, absorbed in such deep 
reflections, that he started with astonishment, when he 
found himself at the mouth of the cave. The tales of the 
Arabian genii seemed realized, for the rude cave was now 
transformed into an hospitable-looking dining-room, and the 
table of rock, first covered with a snowy cloth, was over- 
spread with the comforts and luxuries of the homestead. 
Green boughs decked the corners, green leaves decorated 
the dishes, and Emma and Laura had garlands of green 
around their brows. The fairies, too, had been at work on 
Laura’s dress, for the rips and tatters were mended so 
neatly, that one would hardly have recognised her for the 
dishevelled, slatternly maiden, who was left sulking there 
in the morning. Mr. Selwyn suspected that Emma was 
the presiding fairy, for she had a thimble on her finger, 
and her work-bag lay upon a rock. Laura scarcely re- 
frained from screaming at the sight of Vivian, who answer- 
ed her embarrassed greeting with a cold and distant bow. 
She saw at one glance, that there was a reconciliation be- 
tween him and Bessy, and that her own duplicity must be 
discovered. Frank, too, looked coldly on her, and she 
imagined that every one watched her with a suspicious 
eye. She began to feel that the portion of the false one 
must be shame. 

Bessy and Estelle were permitted to wait upon the table, 
as Emma and Laura had prepared it. Estelle brought the 
water from the spring in her silver cup, and Bessy, whose 
heart felt as light as the cygnet’s down, flitted round the 
board, making the cavern radiant with her smiles. 

“ Why do you not eat, Victorine ?” said Emma. “ The 
lady of the grotto will be angry, if you slight her dain- 
ties.” 


AUNT patty’s scrap-rig. 


269 

“ Oh ! IVe been eating of fairy-bower fruit, and drink- 
ing of fairy-well water, and I cannot partake of grossei 
food,” replied she. 

“I am afraid Victorine will make but a poor traveller,” 
•aid Mr. Selwyn ; “ she looks pale and wearied.” 

“ She’s thinking of the thunder-storm that waits .ler at 
home,” whispered Laura to Emma, “ and I suspect Ed- 
mund is, too ; for he looks as if he were a hundred miles off. 
Does your head ache, Edmund?” asked she, aloud. “I 
think you make as poor a traveller as Victorine.” 

“ I am sorry if I’ve established such a character,” 
replied he, “ since I shall be a wayfaring man so 
soon.” 

“ What do you mean, Edmund ?” asked Emma. “ What 
pilgrimage are you meditating ?” 

“ I am going to take him with me once more,” sai^ Mr. 
Selwyn ; “and we have concluded, on the mountain’ top, 
that we have been resting long enough for refreshment by 
the well-springs of social life.” 

Tears gathered into Emma’s eyes. “ What a blank we 
shall feel, when you are gone,” said she ; “ we have been 
forgetting that life cannot always be as happy as it is 
now.” 

“ Supposing you and Bessy become our fellow-tra- 
vellers,” cried Mr. Selwyn ; “we could have a delightful 
party, and so domestic ; it would seem like carrying the 
homestead away with us. I promised Bessy, two years 
ago, that she should breathe the insp-ring air of a classic 
clime. I suspect her admiration for genius and the fine 
arts is not diminished, unless she feels an unconquerable 
aversion to some of their most gifted devotees.” 

“ Oh ! I’m the worst traveller in the world,” cried 
Emma, shrinking from the idea of crossing the broad, 
magnificent Atlantic. “ My journey to the south almost 
appalled me, though I have half-promised Uncle ^ood- 
ville to return and spend the winter months ifi his 
family.” 

“I think you must include me in your number of 
favoured ones,” said Victorine. “ I have been yearning 
lately to behold once more my transatlantic home.” 

“But Homer!” exclaimed Edmund, suddenly. , 


270 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


“Homer could fit up this cave for a dwelling-place,’^' 
replied V*:torine, colouring; “he would make the best her- 
mit in the world.” 

“ He would want a fair spirit to be his minister,” said 
Mr. Selwyii; “ then, I doubt not, the solitude of the moun- 
tain would be Elysium to him.” 

“I want to go to Europe,” exclaimed Estelle. “I want 
0 see all the fine things Edmund has told me of. Wouldn’t 
there be room for me in the ship ? Edmund says a big 
ship is like a little city.” 

“Would you leave your mother, Estelle ?” 

“ Couldn’t we take her, too ?” 

“And Aunt Patty?” 

“Ah ! poor Aunt Patty — she couldn’t take such a long 
journey. She’s lame now, and old. She would miss me 
too much. No ! I couldn’t leave her behind.” 

“ Verily, my child, thou art a miracle of constancy,” 
said Mr. Selwyn ; “ and thou shalt have thy reward. I 
hope some older damsels will imitate thy fidelity ; and not 
allow their affection to be chilled or diminished by the in- 
firmities of nature. If there is a sight which angels, and 
ihe father of angels, love, it must be that of innocent child- 
hood, winding itself, like a blooming garland, round the 
faded brow and chill bosom of age.” 

“ He means a kind rebuke to me,” thought Victorine, 

but he knows not half the weight that is pressing my 
spirits down. Oh ! my soul is exceeding sorrowful, and, 
whichever way I turn, I see darkness, and doubt and 
misery. I could bear wretchedness myself, but to be the 
cause of wretchedness to others is more than I can endure 
with resignation.” 

The trouble of Victorine’s mind was depicted on a coun 
lenance which mirrored, but too faithfully, every emotion 
of her soul. When the signal for their departure was given, 
siie became still more agitated. She dreaded the scene that 
awaited her return: the jealous strife, the withering sar- 
casm, and the maddening accusation. vShe remembered the 
harrowing interview in the arbour, when she trembled 
before the might of her own roused passions, when she 
first felt her full powers as a woman — born to love, but U> 
lesist; capable of sacrifice, death, even martyrdom, proi 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


271 


tided they were not exacted by oppression, or claimed as a 
just tribute, by an arbitrary will ; but ready, also, to meet 
sacrifices, and death, and martyrdom, sooner than submit a 
willing subject to an iron rule. While the rest were ga- 
thering bonnet and scarf, basket and book ; running to dip 
their cup, for the last time, in the gush of the fountain, or 
pulling the moss-wreaths from the silver-gray rocks, 
Victorine sat absorbed in a reverie so deep, she heeded 
not the bustle of preparation, or the sound of departing 
footsteps. 

“Grood-by, Victorine,” cried Estelle, turning back her 
laughing face, “ you may have the fragments of the feast 
for supper.” 

“ Good-by, Victorine,” said Frank, “ I see you are going 
to remain, to be the hermit’s fair ministrant. We’ll send 
him to his cell.” 

Victorine scarcely moved, so strong was the spell that 
mastered her. 

“ Victorine,” exclaimed Edmund, in a low voice, “ the 
shadows are beginning to lengthen."” 

She started quickly, and laughed at her abstraction. “1 
have bt^en thinking of a name for this beautiful cave,” said 
she ; “ cannot you assist me ? And yet,” added she, as 
they left the spot together, and followed the steps of their 
companions, “I had other and deeper subjects of meditation. 
I have been thinking of many, many things ; and, among 
others, of your wish to hasten again from home. 1 have 
been so accustomed to speak impulsively, to appeal to you 
as a brother, and a friend, I cannot endure this chilling re- 
serve existing between us. Let me, during this last oppor- 
tunity that may ever offer, break down the wall of ice, 
which circumstances have built up, and which is rising 
higher and higher, and address you as I could have done 
two years ago.” 

“ No, no, Victorine,” answered he, with a vehemence of 
manner so unusual that she would gladly have recalled the 
words that excited it, “ better a thousand times be as wc 
are, cold, reserved, and apparently estranged, than attempt 
to renew an intimacy, which would only produce the most 
fatal results. Would to heaven we could be as we were 
two years ago !” 


272 AUNT patty’s SCRAP-BAO. 

“Oh, how difficult it is to be unders.ood !” cried she, 
holding back the tears, that were ready to gush from her 
eyes — “ how difficult it is to know how to act in a situation 
like mine ! I wanted to tell you — and I claim this act of 
truth as a right which no human being has the power to 
wrest from me — ^that if I am so unhappy as to drive you 
from the home where you are so dearly loved, if it is out 
of regard to your brother’s jealous fears, you are anxious to 
banish yourself, I will not allow such a sacrifice. I am re- 
solved to depart myself, that the dwelling of my benefactress 
may recover the peace and happiness I have been the means 
of destroying. I have a step-father in France, who has not 
forgotten the wild little savage he left behind. Your mo- 
ther has refined that savage child. I will not make her 
wretched.” 

“ Do you think Homer would suffer you to depart ?” cried 
Edmund, pausing under the shade of an oak, that bowed over 
the path. “Do you think I could suffer you to do it ? My 
mother and sisters, would they be willing to resign you \ 
You have spoken of my unhappy brother. We all know 
the malady which has followed him from the cradle to man- 
hood, and will probably pursue him to his grave. Long 
before he knew or loved you, I was the object of his intense 
jealousy — and my absence, not yours, is necessary to his 
tranquillity. No — ^Victorine, you have wrung the confes- 
sion from me, and you may tremble for the consequences. 
It is for my sake, not yours, that I would fly ; that I would 
build up a wall of separation between us, high as the hea- 
vens, and lasting as life. I cannot live near you any longer 
and be true to the vow that I’ve made my brother. True 
did I say ? — as there’s an avenging Providence, I feel that 
I’ve broken it already. Victorine, why did you force this 
from me ? You had robbed me of my happiness, and now 
you have wrested from me all I have left, my integrity.” 

Recoiling from the hand that clasped his arm, he leaned 
heavily against the trunk of the tree, and covered his brow 
with his hands. Victorine felt as if she stood on the verge 
of a precipice, and that an abyss was yawning beneath her 
feet. On the one side she saw the stern, commanding 
Homer, threatening her with his malediction ; on the other, 
the pale, agitated, remorseful Edmund, ur>^ding her for 


ATTNT patty’s SCRAP-BAG. 273 

his despair. Previously excited by the conflicts of the day, 
flitigued by the walk, and faint from fasting, her brain was 
in such a fevered state, that her sensations bordered on 
frenzy. She had no power to control them, but rushing 
down the path, with the speed of lightning, she caught hold 
of Mr. Selwyn’s arm, who was fortunately behind the rest, 
having committed Estelle to the care of Frank, and ex- 
claimed in a strange, husky voice, “ Go to Edmund ! — go 
to Edmund !” 

“ Good heavens !” cried he, excessively alarmed. 
“ What is the matter ? Where is he ?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know !” cried she, putting her hand to her 
head — something has happened, but don’t tell Homer ; 
oh, pray, don’t tell him !” 

“ Edmund ! what s the meaning of this ?” cried Mr. 
Selwyn ; for Edmund, raised from his paroxysm of remorse, 
had pursued, in terror, the flying steps of Victorine, and 
now stood, pale as ashes, before him. ’ 

“It means, that I am unworthy to be trusted,” answered 
he; “I know not what I have said, but I have uttered 
words that never can be forgotten. Let me go, sir; I 
must be alone.” 

“ Not with such a face as that,” said Mr. Selwyn, in a 
severe tone. “ Would you carry confusion and terror to 
yon happy group ? Would you make your mother’s heart 
bleed, by a scene of family discord? Calm yourself, 
impetuous boy ! and let reason resume its empire. I’ve 
been dreading something like this ; and yet I had such a 
reliance on your honour and self-control, I believed that 
you might be put in the very furnace of temptation, 
without having your garments scorched. You blush, Ed- 
mund, — you turn away your head ; and, you, Victorine, 
you are weeping, — ^this excitement will subside with your 
tears. You must both make a strong effort to subdue 
your emotions, or, I shudder at what the consequence may 
be. You are both young, my children,” added he, in a 
softened voice, and affectionately taking the hand of each , 
“ and in youth the passions are strong ; wrestle with them 
now, as Jacob did with the angel, in the strength of the 
Lord God, and you will come ofT conquerors ; yield to them, 
tnd you will be miserable, degraded ’’'Te* Uu jugh life,” 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

••My imprudence has been the cause of all,” said Viclo* 
rine, whose excitement, as Mr. Selwyn had foretold, had 
melted away in tears. “ Edmund is not to blame, I did 
not know what I was doing, when I ran to you. How 
weak, how childish I have been !” 

“Think not of the past,” said Mr. Selwyn, earnestly; 
“but guard yourselves for the future. See! Frank is 
coming back, to learn the cause of our delay. Remember, 
that the eyes of many are upon you. Remember, an eye 
more keen and watchful than all, is wailing your return. 
Edmund, m}?^ son, I have seen your struggles, and gloried 
in your self-conquest. One moment of human weakness 
does not tarnish the laurels you have won. 1 know, now,, 
the strength of your temptations, and, if resisted hence- 
forth, my confidence, esteem, and love shall be doubled, 
instead of diminished.” 

“ What is the matter ?” said Frank, fanning himself 
with his hat ; for it was no light exercise to toil back 
the steep ascent. “We are all waiting on the platform. 
.Vre you ill, Victorine ? The exertion has been too much 
for you.” 

“Yes!” said Mr. Selwyn, “Victorine has been over- 
come by fatigue. Her fairy-food has not sustained her for 
the extra call upon her strength, which has been made. 
Go. Frank, and have every thing in readiness. I will 
take Victorine in my landau, and Vivian can occupy her 
seat, you know. I am a kind of common father, and if one 
of my children require peculiar care, I must take them 
under my charge.” 

“ How kind you are !” exclaimed Victorine, ready to 
fall at Mr. Selwyn’s feet, in her gratitude and humility. 
She felt overwhelmed with shame, at the expressions of 
sympathy and anxiety uttered by her young friends, who 
soon gathered round her. 

“ I knew you would be sick,” cried Estelle, “ for you 
would not eat nor drink, and your eyes looked so heavy.” 

“ How shockingly you look !” said Laura ; “ your eyeo 
are so red, and your cheeks so flushed ! — you must have 
an inflammation of the brain. You are certainly sun- 
struck.” 

Victorine rejoiced when she £ound herself in the cw* 


AUNir patty’s scrap-bag. 


27 & 


fiage, safe from the scrutiny of Laura, and side !)y side 
with the gentle and affectionate Emma. But cv^ery 
motion of the carriage brought her nearer home, and 
unknown trials awaited her there. Just as they reached 
the foot of the mountain a horseman was seen galloping 
towards them. 

“ Look ! there’s Homer,” exclaimed Estelle ; “ I know 
him by his black horse : it’s all covered with foam.” 

“Has any thing happened at home, Homer?” asked 
Enuna, bending anxiously forward, while Victorine drew 
bacK, shrinking- from the glance, which, she saw, was still 
dark and lowering. 

“.No,” replied he, turning his horse and riding b)' the 
side of the carriage ; “ but you were so late, I came, on 
my return, to meet you. I thought some accident had 
occurred. You must have found some extraordinary 
charm in the place, to have lingered so long.” 

“ So vre did,” cried Estelle, eager to tell the news ; “we 
found Mr. Vivian. He’s riding in the other carriage, and 
that’s the reason Victorine is with us. Poor Victorine ! 
she’s tired, and starved, and sick.” 

“Is Victorine ill?” he exclaimed, with a sudden change 
of voice ; “ why didn’t you tell me of this, before ?” 

“ I am not ill now, Homer,” said Victorine, wdth so deep 
a colour mantling her cheeks, it was impossible not to 
believe her w-ords ; “ but I’m not quite so much an eaglet 
as I thought I was.” 

“No,” interrupted Estelle; “she and Edmund stayed 
so far behind us all ; and Mr. Selwyn had to go back for 
them, and then Frank w'ent, too, — we were all so frightened 
about them ; 1 believe Edmund is sick, too ; he looks as if 
he was.” 

“ Estelle, you talk too much, entirely too much,” said 
Mr. Selwyn, excessively vexed at her iil-timed prattle, 
which had all the effect w'hich he feared, upon hei 
brother. He knit his brow, bit his lips, and his hands 
visibly trembled on the bridle-rein. “I thought I should 
be an intruder,” he muttered; “it has all been arranged 
marvellously well.” 

The high-spirited horse champed his bits, and tossec* 
t 's mane, smarting frcm the goading spurs of his ri;j«i 


276 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


With fiery eyes, dilated nostrils, and foaming mouth, ha 
darted hefors the carriage, while Mr. Selwyn called upon 
Homer, in a commanding voice, to restrain him, at the risk 
of his life. The horses of Mr. Seiwyn, high fed and little ! 
used, caughi fire from the impetuous motions of the other, ; 
and began to follow in a full gallop. 

“ Hush !” cried Mr. Selwyn, putting his hand over 
Estelle’s mouth, that opened "for a violent scream ; “ add 
not to the mischief you’ve already done, by breaking all 
our necks. Keep still, and you are safe.” 

Taking the reins into his own hands, he so curbed their 
headlong speed, that Emma and Victorine felt confident 
that a master-hand guided their course, and forgot their 
fears for themselves, in anxiety for Homer. Estelle was 
so much mortified and wounded by Mr. Selwyn’s merited 
rebuke, that it seemed doubtful whether she would ever 
speak again. It must be acknowledged that Estelle was 
somewhat spoiled. She was the youngest child, remark- 
ably pretty, and remarkably small, for her age ; the petted 
darling of the household, and the especial idol of Aunt 
Patty. She had been so much accustomed to make un 
limited demands on her social powers, for the entertainment 
of the latter, she forgot that every one did not lend her as 
delighted an ear. If she had been aware how much 
injury she was doing Victorine, by the unguarded sim- 
plicity of her remarks, she would have wished herself 
dumb for life, — the greatest penalty which could be in- 
flicted upon her. She only knew that she had offended 
Mr. Selwyn, and she made the wise resolution, of being 
very still and modest, till she was reinstalled in his good 
graces. 

At length they were all safe at the homestead. Estelle’s 
tongue burned to be the first to run in and tell her mother 
that Vivian was, come ; but she remembered that Mr. Sel- 
wyn had said that she talked entirely too much, and she 
suffered him to be his own henid. 

Bessy could not refrain frori throwing herself into hex 
mother’s arms, in the fulness of her joy. “ Dear mother,” 
whispered she, “Frank has acted nobly! It is he who 
has made us so happy. You must be kinder to him than 
you have ever been before,” 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 277 

Much as Mrs. Worth rejoiced at the letum of Vivian, 
and the raagnahimous behaviour of Frank, she saw, with 
regret, that happiness was very fax removed from the 
bosoms of some. Homer’s morning conduct was a suffi- 
cient reason for Victorine’s depression ; but the quickness 
of maternal love perceived that Edmund had a heaviness 
on his heart, deeper than had ever weighed there before, 
Mr. Selwyn, too, had an anxious and troubled look; and' 
his eye frequently rested on Edmund with an intensity of 
expression that was inexplicable to her. Homer did not 
appear ; his horse stood, panting, in the )^ard ; but whither 
the master had gone, to brood in sullen secrecy, over 
his own dark thoughts, no one knew or asked. The 
erratic movements of the misanthropist were generally 
suffered to pass unnoticed. 

“ Why don’t you tell me about all the wonders you have 
seen, Estelle?” asked Mrs. Worth, grieved to see that 
even Estelle looked sad. 

“ Mr. Selwyn thinks that I, — I — talk too — much,” stam- 
mered she, blushing, and her eyes filling with tears. 

“ And because I said that, perhaps a little too hastily, I 
hope my little friend is not going to be dumb all the rest 
of her life,” said Mr. Selwyn, drawing her towards him 
with a smile of reconciliation. 

“I am afraid you troubled Mr. Selwyn very much, 
or said something very improper,” said her mother, 
gravely. 

“ I only said that Victorine and Edmund stayed away 
off*, behind us ; and that Mr. Selwyn had to go back for 

them, and Frank after him : — and then Mr. Selwyn got 

angry, and Homer’s horse began to run, and our horses 
began to gallop, and — and ” Estelle paused, conscious 

then, in her vindication, she was yielding to her beset- 
ting sin. 

A pang such as only a mother feels, when she foresees 
the certain misery of her children, pierced the heart of 
Mrs. Worth ; she looked at Edmuni, whose changing 
countenance confirmed her apprehensions ; she looked at 
Victorine, and for the first time the dread that she had 
been nurturing in her bosom, a false being unworthy of so 
sacred a d veiling-place, came shudderingly over her. 

18 


278 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


Prank, who had, as Bessy said, acted noWy throughom 
the day, regardless of himself, and acutely alire to the feel- 
ings of others, began with his wonted hilarity to talk of 
their adventures, “ their hair-breadth escapes, and immi- 
nent deadly perils,” not forgetting his own downifal. 

“ Poor Victorine,” added he, “is too much of a fine 
lady to keep up with the wild flights of Bessy and Estelle. 
We were all shamefully forgetful of her, and left her in 
the lurch, till Edmund, who is ever ‘houghtful for the com- 
fort of others, took compassion on her, as she had done on 

me, when Bess}'- left me, for (hai Vivian” emphasizing 

with much vehemence on the name of his rival. “ She fell 
sick, and Mr. Selwyn went to the rescue. Now, had it 
not been for my sad downfal, and Victorine’s fine lady 
airs, we should have had a glorious day ; a day to be re- 
membered in the annals of history ; a day, which I am 
sure I shall ever remember with gratitude, for I trust I 
have gained a life-long friend, and I know there’s one 
happy heart will bless me in her prayers to-night.” 

“Not only to-night, but for ever,” ejaculated Bessy, 
giving him a glance from her heavenly blue eyes, that 
conveyed a thousand blessings. 

Vivian’s fine countenance became luminous with feeling. 
“ You have indeed gained a friend,” he cried ; “ who 
will ever associate you with the sweetest and brightest 
moments of his existence.” 

Frank’s careless, natural narration, relieved Mrs. Worth 
of her worst fears, and her conscience upbraided her, for 
her transient injustice to Victorine. The current of her 
feelings was changed, and as it flowed more calmly on, the 
lovely, love-lighted face of Bessy was mirrored on the 
tide. 

Estelle, on whose weary eyes, the dews of slumber 
were falling fast, was warned by her mother to retire. 
The aflectionate child lingered on the threshold for a kind 
word from Mr. Selwyn, whose attention at that moment 
was occupied by another. Waiting in vain to catch his 
eye, she stole behind his chair, and whisf)ered, “Pray, 
forgive me for talking too much. I’ll try not to do so any 
more.” 

Mr. Selwyn caught her m his arms, and imprin';ed a 


AUNT patty’s scrap- bag. 279 

kiss on her fair round cheek. “ You must forgive me, too, 
!n\ darling Estelle, for speaking so harshly, and putting 
iny band so roughl}' on those sweet lips. But thy happi- 
ness and the lives of many were at stake, and I was obliged 
to be stern, to save them. One scream, and Aunt Patty 
might now be mourning over her lost darling, and her un- 
finished counterpane.” 

Estelle smiled through her tears, and went to bed with a 
lightened heart. Mr. Selwyn sought that evening an 
interview with Mrs. Worth. That day seemed destined 
to be marked in the annals of the family history. Mr. 
Selwyn, whose manners Avere remarkable for their elegant 
self-possession, was on this occasion visibly embarrassed, 
and Mrs. Worth waited in some trepidation for the com- 
munication he was about to make. 

“ I wished to speak with you, madam,” said he, after 
making some general remarks, “ upon our contemplated 
tour. It is Edmund’s desire to go immediately, and what- 
ever regret you may feel, at parting with him so soon, I 
think your penetration must perceive the wisdom of his 
resolution. Should he remain longer here, I fear that his 
happiness must be the inevitable sacrifice.” 

“ I dreaded as much,” replied Mrs. Worth. “ I see but 
too well he is unhappy, and that he does, not suffer alone. 
But must he for ever be an exile from his home ? Must he 
be made a victim to the dark passions of others I He, 
who seemed born to make the sunshine of my life ! And 
yet, I tremble while he remains. If I should oppose his 
going, 1 may bring a weight of sorrow on my soul, that 
would crush it to the dust.” 

She bowed her face upon her hands, and a silent prayei 
ascended to Heaven, for fortitude to endure, and strength 
to sustain. 

“ Do not shadow out too sad a futurity,” said Mr. Sel* 
wyn ; “ I hope every thing from this speedy separation. 
Edmund is so young, and such a well-spring of joy has, 
till now, been gushing in his soul. I cannot think of his 
green hopes being withered, never to bloom again. Ho- 
mer, if once united to Victorine, may, perhaps, find his 
troubled spirit lulled ro rest on the bosom of weddefl 


280 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

“Homer’s spirit will never find rest m this world,” 
said the mother. “ He may have here and there a gleam 
of happiness, but it will be like a sun-ray on the roaring 
billows. No — there is no such thing as rest, for such a 
spirit as Homer’s. Yet why should I limit the power of 
the Almighty ? There is a peace which passeth all 
understanding, which may yet dawn upon his soul. Oh ! 
that he might repose on the bosom of heavenly love !” 

“ And now,” said Mr. Selwyn, “ will you permit me to 
speak, one moment, of my own hopes and wishes : I would 
not be selfish, yet I have identified my happiness so 
closely with yours, and your interesting family, I cannot 
separate it if I would. No man living knows how to at- 
tach a highe»' value to the blessings of domestic life. I 
once had an angel wife, who made this world a paradise 
to me. She was taken from me, and no sweet child was 
left, to ‘ hang upon my neck, and look resembling her.* 
My home was a desert — I exchanged it for a public life» 
and sought in the exercise of exalted duties, and in the 
bustle of stirring events, oblivion for unutterable wo 
Accident threw in my way the son of my early friend ; anti 
my widowed, childless heart, yearned to adopt him as my 
own. I became domesticated, as it were, in the bosom of 
your lovely family, and all the sympathies of life have 
been re-awakened in my bosom.” He paused, and Mrs 
Worth trembled for the revelation which he was about to 
make. She honoured and esteemed him as the friend of 
her husband. She loved him, as the friend and benefactor 
of her children, but her heart was buried in the grave ot 
her first and only love, and she felt, if ever woman did, the 
truth of these thrilling words : 

“ Oh ! what is any living love, 

To that which cannot quit the dead ?” 

Mr. Selw}Ti rose, and walked several times across the 
room, without speaking — then stopped and laid his hand 
on the chair, which supported Mrs. Worth. 

“You must have anticipated,” said he, in an agitated 
voice, “ the avowal I am about to make. The manifesta- 
Sons of true afiection cannot often eliide the penetrati<Qii of 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


Others. I fear you may think my hopes presumptuoiw, 
nay, even preposterous ; and yet, upon your decision, de- 
pends the happiness of my life.” 

Poor Mrs. Worth ! she sat with her eyes bent upon the 
floor, a colour on her cheek, bright as the first rose of 
youth. This was such a sudden and unexpected trial ! 
To give pain to the noble and generous friend of her chil- 
dren, perhaps deprive them of their future protector, of 
one who might watch over them, if she, perchance, were 
laid low in the dust. Yet the thought of a second mar- 
riage seemed, to her constant heart, as great a sacrilege as 
if her husband still walked hand in hand with her, living, 
loving, and supporting. 

“ I see, and do not wonder at your hesitation,” said he ; 
“ she is so young, and you may may think that she regards 
me with only filial reverence. But Emma has the thought- 
fulness and serenity of maturer years, blended with the 
simplicity and tenderness of youth. Prevented, from deli- 
cacy of health, from sharing the usual amusements of her 
age, she has acquired a sobriety of feeling, and a kind of 
matronly grace of manner, which make me forget the dis- 
parity of age. If I have your permission to ask her to be 
my wife, I am willing to hazard a rejection from her.” 

Mrs. Worth raised her eyes, with a sensation of inde- 
scribable relief. Grateful, beyond measure, that she had 
not committed herself, by uttering any words expressive 
of her misunderstanding of his proposal, astonished at the 
conquest of her youthful daughter, her unpretending, 
heaven-devoted Emma; and flattered by such a compli 
ment from so excellent and distinguished a man, she found 
it difficult to collect her thoughts, so as to give him a cleaj 
and definite answer, 

“She is so young,” was her first remark. 

“Yes ! but I am old enough to guard her youth.” 

“ Her constitution is so frail !” 

“ I will cherish her, like a tender plant in my bosom 
My strength shall be the stay of her weakness. I will bi 
father and husband in one.” 

“ You have indeed proved a father to all my children 
and if by giving you one, I can partly cancel ray debt ol 
gratitude, I ought o rejoice ip opportunity. Bin 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


282 

would you siili keep your station in public life? Would 
you think of taking her to foreign climes ?” 

“ 1 see you think I am asking too much of your friend- 
ship. But the sea-born breezes will bear strength upon 
ihft'iT wings, and finish the work of restoration commenced 
m a southern land. If you could send her across the 
ocean, under the charge of a good physician, you ought to 
do it. I will be the best physician in the world ; though 
she looks too well now to remain on the invalid list. By- 
and-by, I will come and settle down in some beautiful 
country-seat, perhaps near your own, where we may 
enjoy 

“ An elegant sufficiency, content. 

Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books. 

Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven.” 

Mrs. Worth remembered how often her husband had 
applied this beautiful picture of domestic happiness to their 
own wedded life, and many a proof of recollected love 
moistened her eyes with the dew of memory. 

“ Edmund,” continued he, “ shall not suffer from ray- 
present intentions. I have an ample fortune, which he still 
shall share. Vivian, too, requires my aiding hand. I will 
give him a broad stepping-stone to stand upon, and then 
his genius will build others, step above step, till he reaches 
a height of fame and fortune, equal to his most lofty aspi- 
rations. Believe me, madam, a glorious destiny awaits that 
young man. Bessy is the child of genius herself, and their 
two souls meet and blend into one, as naturally as two sun- 
rays meet together as they unite. Oh ! madam, I trust 
your children will all be happy yet. My friend will look 
down from heaven, and rejoice over the loved ones he has 
left on earth.” 

“ I have no words to express my gratitude for your al^ 
embracing kindness,” cried Mrs. Worth; “and if the love 
of my young and unobtrusive Emma can in any way repay 
a mother’s debt, and if her heart answers to the wishes of 
yours, take her, with the dowry of my blessings and my 
prayers.” 

Did Emma’s heart answer to Mr. Selwyn’s ? Had she 
been warned by premonitory symptoms of the approaching 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 283 

crisis ? She had been pleased and honoured by his exirema 
kindness and attention, but she attributed it to the interest 
he felt in the daughter of his friend. Her modesty and 
simplicity, and his superior age, talents and fortune, had 
prevented her from dreaming of the possibility of such a 
union. The idea of any one^s loving her, when Bessy was 
near, never entered her imagination. She might excite 
sympathy, kindness, and esteem ; but love was Bessy’s 
inalienable right. She, herself, was destined to be an old 
maid ; and she had fesolved to make that often aspersed 
name so lovely from the graces of the heart and mind, that 
no one should shrink from wearing it. Wi'^h such an hum- 
ble estimate of herself, it is no wonder that Emma was over- 
whelmed with astonishment. 

Had the mountain, which they had just ascended, come 
down, and knelt at her feet, she could not have experienced 
more amazement. But when the stunning effects of sur- 
prise were over, and she could realize that she was sought 
as a wife, by the man whom she revered as the first of 
human beings, her gratitude was as deep as her humility. 
To be chosen as the companion of his intellectual and en- 
nobling pursuits, the object of his chief tenderness and care, 
to have his arm of strength, and soul of honour, as a constant 
guard and support ; to kneel at his side in prayer, and com- 
mune with him of the mysteries of holiness ; to walk hand 
in hand with him through life, and })artake with him of a 
blissful eternity ; surely, this was happiness enough tor 
her meek and unambitious spirit. It was not long be- 
fore she came to the conclusion, that while she cherished 
for him ail the affection of a daughter, she could learn to 
love him with all the tenderness of a wife. 

When those sweet, virgin sisters pressed their nightly 
couch, their hearts were too full for sleep. What a change 
in their life-prospects since the morning light ! and what a 
contrast in their own ! Bessy’s love partook of the warmth, 
the enthusiasm and poetry of her nature. Her imagination 
beautified and glorified her love. Her heart had not waited 
to know, whether Vivian first loved her, but she had wel- 
comed him, as she had once told her mother, as one known 
and loved in a remembered world ; she was sure she would 
hare chosen him from the assembled universe-, as her fellow 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


284 

80ui ; and had not circumstances thrown them togetl 3r, she 
would have gone through life a lonely pilgrim, sighing foi 
the one being created for her. But now that being was 
found. They had met — they had loved — they wertJ to be 
united for ever. Bessy was too happy to sleep. Her 
cheeks’ glowing rose warmed the snows of her pillow, and 
her heart throbbed audibly beneath the folds of her white 
night-robe. 

While the two lovely sisters thus lay cheek to cheek, 
and heart to heart, in their vestal couch, while the holy 
stars looked silently and lovingly oh them, through their 
parted curtains, and ministering angels hovered with unseen 
pinions round their bed, there was another, who kept lonely 
vigils, whose sighs stole on the silence of the midnight 
hour, and whose pillow w^as saturated with tears. Victo- 
rine could not sleep. The midnight hour found her 
bathed in tears ; the morning light flashed on her wakeful 
eyes and fevered brow. She arose early, and endeavoured 
to efface, with copious ablutions, the traces of her tears. 

“ I will bathe my soul in music,” said she, “ and see if 
I can find balm in the heavenly ablution.” She sought the 
piano, and began a morning hymn of praise, which Mrs. 
Worth loved to hear. “ His mother’s wakening ear will 
hear, and, perhaps, bless the sounds.” 

Did she mean Homer, or Edmund’s mother ? Sweet and 
solemn her voice rose ; and sad, too, though it was a hymn 
of adoration and praise — 

“ Lord, in the morning thou shalt hear 
My voice ascending high, — 

To thee will I address my prayer, 

To thee lift up mine eye.” 

“Victorine!” uttered a deep-toned voice. It was the 
voice of Homer — and she knew that a scene of passion and 
strife awaited her. 

“ Is your soul tuned to harmony this morning, Homer ?’ 
asked she, looking up with a smile. It was a forced one 
and vani^ ed when her eye met his. 

“You meet n? in mockery, Victorine,” sail he, “but 
there is not one chord in my spirit that can respo-id to 
•Jiusic yr mirth. I should think your conduc t of yssteir- 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 285 

day might produce by this tjne some serious leflec- 
tions.” 

“ What conduct ? If you mean my going, unaccompa- 
nied by yourself, rtflection only confirms me in the pro- 
priety of the step. You do not, cannot blame me now. 
‘ lomer, for doing whit every other person in the world would 
lave done in my situation. What any other person but 
f ourself would have wished me to have done. You do 
jlame me still. I have done you more than justice. 
I thought you selfish from passion. I find you so from 
principle.” 

“ Ever ready to justify yourself, Victorine. Ever ready to 
throw censure on me. I was not about to allude, at this 
moment, to the circumstance of your choosing a party of 
pleasure, in preference to showing, by a trifling sacrifice, 
your regard to my happiness. I could have forgiven that ; 
I did, so far as to ride forth to meet you, weary as I was, 
resolved to greet you in the spirit of reconciliation. But 
you drew coldly back as I approached, as if something evil 
were crossing your path. No wonder, you drew back in 
conscious guilt, w’^hen you knew how you had spent the 
hours since we parted. How glaring must have been your 
conduct, since even childhood made it a matter of animad- 
version. What did your innocent sister say? Good hea- 
vens ! how calmly I am speaking, when her every word is 
blistered on my brain !” 

‘‘ I’m weary — oh ! so weary of this strife”— -cried Victo- 
rine, clasping her hands passionately together, “ that I am 
tempted to make a solemn vow, that this shall be the last 
time we shall ever meet. Yet once again, in pity to your 
misery, I will explain those blistering words. Knowing 
your unhappy suspicions, Edmund and myself mutually 
avoided each other. In coming down the mountain, I even 
solicited the arm of Frank, because my heart told me you 
would thank me for the choice. Before we left the cave, I 
became so absorbed in sad meditations, caused alone by you, 
(hat I knew not when my companions left me. Edmund 
was the last, and because he was not cruel enough to suffer 
me to come down those rough rocks unsupported and alone, 
you upbraid me, as a r,riminal, guilty of some ignominious 
deed. O Homer ! you ire no* worthy of such a noble, gene • 


AUNT PATTY S SCRAP-BAG. 


286 

fBUs brother. You do not .^now the heart y^ou believe 
capable of such injury to you ” 

“Every word you have uttered ” continued he, with in- 
creasing vehemence, “ has only added tenfold weight to my 
suspicions. 1 did not ask for an explanaion. I knew there 
was none to be given. Do no' add duplicity to your already 
broken faith. Do not go on coolly and deliberately playing 
with my credulity, and mocking me with protestations of 
regard. The to/ture inflicted in ancient days, of surf Ting 
water to fall, drop by drop, till it perforated the living brain, 
and bared the secret place of thought, could not have been 
compared to tins. Victorine, why do you attempt to deceive 
me in this manner ? You do not love me ; you never have 
loved me.” 

“ I have loved you, Homer,” cried she, with more sorrow 
than anger in her voice and manner. “ I have loved you 
as you never will be loved again. Hear me calm!}", for 
one moment, and then I am willing to be silent for ever. 
When I first discovered the influence I had gained over 
your heart, my pride exulted in the thought, that ,the eye, 
that looked so coldly and darkly on all the world, softened at 
the beams of mine ; that the bosom, shut to every sweet 
affection, opened involuntarily to embrace my image. Then 
tenderer feelings dawned, and my eyes, which had hitherto 
glanced sportively on all around, learned to soften at the 
beams oi yours. My heart unfolded to receive yotcr image, 
and enshrine it, as a sacred trust. The gloom of your cha- 
racter, at which I once flung the random shafts of ridicule, 
assumed a grandeur in my sight, since I found it resulted 
from a depth of feeling, \^'hich no common mind could 
fathom. Yes. Homer,” continued Victorine, with indescriba- 
ble grace and dignity, her linguage rising into that meta- 
fjhorical strain, in which strong passion unconsciously in- 
dulges, “I looked upon you as one of those ruins, rouna 
which genius and feeling ] jve to linger, where the moon- 
light shines lovelier fromth i very darkness of the shadows, 
and the ivy blooms brighter from the dampness of its broken 
walls. But since I find yo i capable of the most degrading 
suspicions, and cruel injus ice ; since I see you persisting 
in a course of conduct as debasing to yourself as it is har- 
rowing to me, destroying the peace of your brother, and 


AtJNT patty’s scrap-bag, 287 

wearing out my own existence with your causeless, unna- 
tural jealousy, setting aside manliness, and reason, and 
truth ; I tell thee, Homer, and I tell thee calmly — I would 
as soon take the lightning’s chain, and bind it round my 
Wfeast, for warmth, as trust for hapuiness in such love as 
you can oder me.” 

“ Then you reject me for ever !” cried he, his quivering 
Ups turning as pale as clay. 

At this moment, which might be the crisis of his fate, the 
door was opened, and Edmund stood before them. He was 
not aware of the interview, on which he was intruding, and, 
as soon as he discovered in whose presence he was, he 
turned to leave the apartment. 

“ Stay,” cried Homer, his blood boiling in his veins from 
the fire of his passion; “stay, brother that was, traitor that- 
js. The time is come when we must understand each 
other. Where is the vow you made before the God of 
heaven, that you would never be my rival, in fame, for- 
tune, or love ? Fame — I care not for its breath. For- 
tune — you have already secured ; and love — all that I , 
treasured, all that I lived for, you have stolen from me ; 
basely, insidiously, like the midnight robber, who wraps 
himself in darkness, as a thick veil. Look me in the face, 
if you dare, and tell me that your vow is not broken.” 

“ Broken in spirit, but not in deed,” cried Edmund, re- 
coiling from the frenzied glance of Homer. “ I told you 
that I was human, that I had strong passions, and that it 
was only in the strength of God, that I wrestled with them. 

I have never attempted to rival you. Victorine knows that 
I have not. I have treated her as the stranger within our 
gates, not the friend of my childhood. I have done what I 
can do no more. I cannot stay. The world henceforth 
shall be my home. I leave every thing to you — mother, 
sisters, Victorine, and home. I am willing my very name 
should be blotted from rem/?ml ranee, provided such ob- 
livion could purchase tranquil litj for you.” 

“No, no, Edmund,” cried Vi:jtorine, “leave me not to 
him. My decision is made I shall return to my native 
clime, and bury in the walls of a convent every youthful 
tiope. Homer, if you had fifty thousand brothers, and 


288 AUNT patty’s si;rap-bag. 

banished tl em all for my sake, it would be in vaiir ; i 
never could be your wife.’* 

Edmund gazed upon Victoniie, as slowly and sadly» 
but firmly, she uttered these emj)hatic words. They were- 
not the breathings of passion, but the expression of an un- 
alterable will. Her eyes, in conclusion, were lifted towards 
heaven ; her hands were clasped tightly over her breast. 
The idea that she was free, that, though lost to him, he 
was not doomed to love her as the wife of his brother, 
filled him with a momentary joy, too strong to be repressed* 
The emotions which he had so long struggled to subdue, 
rushed, for one instant, unchecked through his veins, 
burned on his cheek, and flashed from his eyes. Homer 
marked this sudden bursting of light and flame, and he 
marked, too, a sudden, simuitaneous illumination of Victo- 
rine’s late pale and passionless face. A blindness came 
over his eyes ; a cold, clammy sweat covered his brow. 
He felt as if he had burning coals eating into his naked 
heart ; as if all life and warmth had concentrated in that 
one spot, in a consuming blaze, and that Edmund had 
kindled it from the fires of hell. 

“ If never mine, not Edmund’s !” exclaimed he, rushing 
towards Edmund, with the fury of a madman. Victorine 
threw herself on his arm, with a cry so wild and piercing, 
that it penetrated to the remotest chamber of the home- 
stead, but it was too late. The blow descended, and Ed- 
mund, thrown violently against the marble corner of the 
mantelpiece, lay prostrate beneath his brother’s fratricidal' 
hand. 

What a scene met the gaze of those who, roused by that 
wild cry of agony, ran in terror to the spot ! Stretched on 
the floor, still and white as a corpse, was the lifeless body 
of Edmund, his head restir.g on the marble slabs of tire 
hearth, which were splashed with the blood-drops that 
gushed from his temples. And reclining over him, as 
white and almost as lifeless, lay Victorine, her long hair 
sweeping over his breast, and dabbling in his blood, and 
her arms clasping him in a stiffening fold. Standing over 
this death-like pair, still, dark, and terrible, as Cain over 
the body of his marty ed brother, still as if transfonned ta 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 289 

Stone by some avenging power, towered the stately form 
of Homer. 

It were a vain attempt to describe *he anguish and horror 
that filled the household. Sorrow had once before visited 
that mansion, a sudden, fearful messenger, but it was a 
commissioned angel from on high, and the most rebellious 
will soon learn to bow to the mandate of God. But man 
had wrought this deed — a son — a brother. Strange, that 
that tond mother’s heart did not break at once I Strange, 
that those loving, gentle sisters, could gaze on such a sight 
and live ! But it is astonishing what a weight of wo the 
human heart can bear, without being crushed. The first 
distinct sounds which were heard, amidst shrieks and in- 
coherent cries, were uttered by Mr. Selwyn ; who, alone, 
retained sufficient self-possession to think, and to act. 
“ Bathe her temples, give her water and air,” cried he, 
lifting Victorine from the bosom of Edmund, and bearing 
her to a sofa ; then without waiting to see who obeyed his 
command, he knelt down by his adopted son, raised his 
bleeding head on his arm, and laid his hand beneath the 
folds of his vest. “ Great God !” he ejaculated, “ there is 
life ; a faint pulsation in his heart. Haste for the physi- 
cian — quick — ^bring bandages — lint — any thing to stop this 
blood from flowing. Water — for God’s sake give me water, 
or he dies.” 

The moment Mr. Selwyn exclaimed, “ Great God ! there 
is life Homer burst into a loud, convulsive laugh, then 
fell back into the arms of Frank and Vivian, who both 
sprang forward to receive him. They bore him from the 
apartment, but even after the door was closed, the echo of 
that same convulsive laugh was heard again and again, 
more terrible a thousand times than the wailings of 
grief. 

Edmund indeed lived, but the violence of the bbw and 
fall had produced a concussion of the brain, and his life 
was suspended on so slender a hope, it was scarcely felt in 
the iron grasp of despair, which had hold of their hearts. 

The sun went down that night on a house of grief, but 
all was still as death, save the chamber where Homer lay, 
/ossing in delirious agony, ' ow tearing the bandages from 
bis arms, where the veins bad been opened, to give vent 


290 AUjfT patty’s scrap-bag. 

to the bbt, fererish blood, and now calling for watei- tii 
quench the fire in his heart and his brain. Victorine had 
talleh from one fainting fit intD another, till, at length, she 
sunk into a stupor so deep i: might have been taken for 
the slumber of the grave. The sisters, prohibited the 
chamber of their brothers, sat by the couch of Victorine, 
holding her pallid hands and bathing them with theii 
tears. Sometimes, the sound of a softly opening door, s 
cautious tread on the stairs, made their pulses scop and 
their blood curdle. It might be the messenger of death 
approaching, and they feared to look into each othem 
faces. Sometimes, too, the ravings of Homer came like 
the fitful meanings of an autumn wind, on the hush of the 
midnight hour. Only the niijht before, they had lain in 
each other’s arms, too full of blissful hopes to slumber, and 
now the same stars that smiled so benignandy upon them, 
seemed to look down with pale, mournful lustre, on their 
sad vigils. 

Ail night the mother leaned over the bed of Edmund, 
watching his death-white face, and counting the beatings 
of his feeble pulse. Good Doctor Leyton, the old family 
physician, whom they all loved next to their minister, 
never left them, but went from room to room, administer- 
ing comfort, if not relief. Mr. Selwyn’s principal station 
was by the side of Homer, but he often stole in to gaze on 
the marble features of Edmund, and to w’hisper in tie 
mother’s ear tidings of the unhappy Homer. And where 
are those venerable forms, seated side by side, in the gloom 
of that silent, shaded room ? How came they there, those 
old, trembling, silver-haired ones, to share the night-watch 
which they cannot relieve ? How awful is their appear- 
ance there, in the midst of the stillness and grief! A link 
between the past and the present, the living and the 
dead ! 

The aged dwellers of the little cottage had tottered over 
as soon as the tidings had reached their ears, and they 
would not be constrained to depart until morning ; of ail 
the family of their benefactress, none was so beloved as 
Edmund, and the old ladies W3pt, and prayed God that he 
might live, even if He shru.d require their lives in his 
^ead. Softly the octogenar.an murmured the language of 


AUNT PATT> ’s SCRAP-BAG. 291 

Scripture, with which her memory was stoi ud, and il stole 
on the ear, like the voice of prophecy, so solemn and slow 
were the accents. It was well poor old Aunt Patty (ould 
not leave her apartment, for she, too, would have claimed a 
place by the pillow of Edmund, and age has an authority 
which was never disputed in the family of Mrs. Worth. 
Estelle \yas forbidden to quit her, and the child lound con* 
solution in pouring out her sorroAvs in Aunt Patty’s sym- 
pathizing ear. 

Day passed after day, and still the muffled knocker, and 
the darkened window, and the mournful countenances, 
showed that the fear of death hung over the house. It 
Avas true, Victorine had risen, and AV'as seen hovering like 
a pale ghost round the bed of Edmund, but Edmund still 
lay with closed eyes and speechless lips ; and Homer, 
though his ravings had subsided, languished under a burn- 
ing fever, brought on by the fierceness of passion. 

The third night, as tha.. mother hung over her second- 
born, the long sealed lids, sioAvly unclosed, and the soul 
awakened from its trance, looked feebly forth from the dim 
eyes. She did not speak, but laid her hand gently on his 
brow. A deAvy moisture met her touch, and the pale lips 
parted Avith a perceptible motion. Again the eyes closed,, 
and the faint, regular breathings of slumber stole on her 
ear. On her knees she watched that slumber, and Victo- 
rine knelt at her side, for they kneAv that sleep Avas the 
crisis of his fate ; it A\mu)d either bear him softly over the 
biiloAvs of death, or bring healing on its doAvny wings. 

“ Mother,” murmured a faint voice ; and Mrs. Worth 
knew that God had given her son back to her arms. 
“Victorine.” The mother and the Victorine thus faintly 
addressed, attempted not to ansAver, but, on their knees as 
they Avere, they fell on each other’s neck, and wept, and 
sobbed, as if Edmund had just breathed his last. “ My bro- 
ther!” again sighed Edmund ; “My unhappy brother I” 

“ He lives, my son,” said Mrs. Worth, laying her hand 
on Edmund’s pallid .ip)s ; “ but speak not, move not. Q 
my God, I thank thee !” 

She felt the faint pressure of those pallid lips on her 
hand, and his eyes, raised to hea\"en, seemed to echo the 
grateful ejaculation, “ O my God, I thank thee I” 


292 Al/NT patty’s scrap-bag. 

And now Edmund’s only danger was, in being kided oj 
too much kindness by his tender nurses. But had they 
forsaken Homer ? Did no mother or sister tend his fever- 
ish couch, and minister to his disease ? Ah ! when did a 
mother ever forget her first-bom ? At least such a mother 
as Homer’s ? When did passion ever estrange, or crime 
alienate the mother from her son, the child of her prayers, 
her hopes, and her tears ? During his wild paroxysms, he 
would allow no one to be near him, but Mr. Selwyn, Frank, 
and Vivian, who kept watch by him day and night, and it 
often required their united strength to master him in his 
struggles ; but when the fever left him, he was weak as an 
infant, and as easily subdued. Though his delirious mad- 
ness was over, his mind still wandered, and the doctor be- 
gan to fear a permanent alienation of the intellect, though 
ne did not express his apprehensions. 

Once, as his mother sat by him, she noticed a sudden 
change in his countenance. He gazed long and mournfully 
on her, and then said in a low voice — “Have you not 
cursed me ?” 

“Curse my son?” she cried. “O Homer! I have 
wept over you, and prayed over you, when you knew me 
not ; and now, Homer — yes, even now, my first-born, a 
mother’s blessing may be yours, if you will not cast it from 
you. Your brother lives, and forgives you, as freely as he 
hopes to be forgiven by his God.” 

“ My brother forgives me !” repeated he, in indescribable 
emotion, — “ and you, have you one blessing left for me — 
even for me — O my mother! — me, the second Cain !” 

He drew the covering over his face, and the bed shook 
with the throes of his agony. Gently, and soothingly, she 
bent over, and whispered in his ear words of heavenly con- 
solation. She told him of the prodigal, who, returning in 
shame and remorse to his father’s mansion, was welcomed 
with the embraces of love ; of the abounding joy in heaven, 
over the repenting sinner; of the promise given to the 
broken and contrite heart, that the high and Holy One, 
which inhabiteth eternity, should descend and make his 
dwelling there. Holy were the lessons taught on that bed 
of sickness. Th4 stubborn glebe of the sinner’s heart was 
Oroken by the ploughshare of the Almighty, and watered 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 293 

by penitential showers; it might yet yield a harvest of 
golden fruit. 

At length the brothers met once more. Homer, weak 
and languid, reclined upon a scfa, supported by the arm of 
his mother. Edmund, whose recovery had been more 
rapid, came in, leaning on Mr. Selwyn, who fain would 
have retarded the interview. But Edmund yearned to 
pour the balm of forgiveness into the goaded bosom of Ho 
mer, and the first effort of returning strength led him to hi* 
side. Homer’s head was pillowed on his mother’s shoulder 
His raven hair hung damp and thick over his pale brow 
shading his sunken eyes. His features were in deep re 
pose ; the workings of passion having settled down into an 
expression of profound melancholy. But though the strife 
seemed over, and the battle won, the sears of a wounded 
spirit were imprinted on his face. The lightning leaves its 
scathing mark ; fire, flood, and storm, their blasting traces ; 
but the lightning and storm of passion leave deeper and 
more blasting traces on the soul. Edmund, pale and agi- 
tated, approached his brother, and the next moment they 
were weeping in each other’s arms, while the arms of a 
mother enfolded them both. 

Mr. Selwyn withdrew. He felt it was a scene which 
should be sacred from all intrusion ; that even the eye of 
friendship should not invade its hallowed bounds. 

“ How much you have suffered, my brother !” exclaimed 
Edmund, gazing with anguish on Homer’s altered features; 
“ but God has been merciful to us both. Let us commence 
anew a life of gratitude and love.” 

“If I could die this moment,” cried Homer, “I should 
be happy — happy in the consciousness of your forgiveness, 
and hoping in the mercy of God. But I dread to return to 
the world. I dread the resurrection of my bosoni enemy.” 

“ No, it will never rise again,” said Edmund ; “ I re 
nounce the fatal passion which has destroyed our peace. 
Had I been true in spirit to the vow I made, this evil never 
had befallen us. We have both been tempted, and both 
have sinned.” 

“ Hear me, Edmund,” cried Homer, raising his head, 
and lifting his joined hands to heaven, “ while I declare, as 
in the presence of omnipotent Truth, that the thought of 
19 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

Victorine shall never ag^ain come betwixt thee and me. She 
has renounced me, and I here resign all claim upon her af- 
fections or her faith. I absolve you from a promise made 
to a madman. As a rational being I have no right to exact 
it. Be happy with each other, and let no remembrance of 
me darken your felicity. If I live I will gather up the 
energies of my soul, and labour henceforth for immortality. 
No, not for immortality, but eternity. But something tells 
ne here,” added he, pressing his hand heavily on his breast, 
that I am destined to an early grave. The flame of life 
has been burning too intensely to last. My youth is con- 
sumed, like the grass of the field, when the breath of fire 
passeth over it. Weep not, my mother, my long-suffering, 
blessed mother. The sleep of the grave will be sweet to 
me. No storm of passion will disturb that long repose. No 
scorching jealousy be felt in that cold bed. All will be 
peace there, my brother.” 

Edmund pressed his hand, incapable of utterance. The 
love he ftlt for Victorine seemed a faint emotion compared 
to what he experienced, at this moment, for Homer. He 
would willingly purchase his life at the sacrifice, of his own. 
He would never erect his happiness on the ruins of his bro- 
ther’s. He would emulate his generosity. 

The brothers moved again in the family circle ; but 
Homer was the shadow of his former self. His lofty figure 
drooped ; the lustre of his lamp-bright eyes waxed dim. 
The haughty spirit, which once sat enthroned in those bril- 
liant eyes, was become gentle as a weaned child, and could 
be led by a silken thread. His mother vA’-atched him, with 
heart-breaking tenderness. Of all her children, he had 
called forth the greatest intensity of feeling. She had loved 
him with fear and trembling. The fear that he would for- 
feit the affection of all others, only bound him closer to her 
heart. Whatever he had been to the rest of the world, he 
had always been gentle and affectionate to her. ^A.nd now, 
when hj was gentle and affectionate to all, and household 
love followed his steps, and hung upon his looks with ever- 
mcreasiiig devotion, when the lost link in the family chain 
was restored in golden lustre, must the chain be broken by 
death ? Must the prodigal, so lately received into the bo- 
som of an earthly hone, be called so soon to his Father’s 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


295 


mansions in the skies f “ Even so, Father,” replied the 
Christian parent — if it seemeth good in thy sight. The 
cup which thou givest me, shall I not drain it, even to the 
bitterest dregs of sorrow ! One loved one is gone before me 
— another is treading the shadowy path. The way through 
the dark valley is beaten, and when I travel through it, it 
will be sweet to know, that I am treading in the steps of 
my husband and my son.” 

As her fears strengthened, so did the hopes of others. 
They saw his eye become brighter, and a bright flush on 
his cheek came and went, like a herald of returning health. 
“He is better,” they would say, “oh! how much better. 
He will soon be well, and we shall be happy together once 
more.” 

Edmund and Victorine never talked of happiness. The 
thought could not be associated with Homer, and conse- 
quently \vas rejected by them. 

One evening Mrs. Worth was summoned to the dying 
bed of old Lady Graves, who had never been well since 
the nighr she sat by Edmund, believing the angel of death 
had come to bear him away. I’he shock was too much for 
her aged frame, and she was about to be gathered to her 
fathers. She wanted to see the children of her benefactress 
— “ her princely boy” — most of all, he whose danger had 
hastened her to the tomb. 

“ I am going,” said the aged Christian, holding out her 
cold, trembling hand, “ I am going the way of all the earth. 
My soul rejoices to lay down the burden of nearly a hun- 
dred years. The Lord has been exceedingly gracious unto 
me,” continued she, gazing dimly up in the fair, sad faces 
that bent over the couch, “ and sent you all to comfort the 
poor and the needy, to uphold the aged and infirm, to be 
lamps to my feet, and guides to my path. Come nearer, 
and let me lay my hand in blessing on you, before I go 
hence and am no more seen for ever.” Solemnly the dy- 
ing saint laid her palsied hand on each head bowed in 
reverence before her. It lingered a moment on Bessy’s, and 
her fingers slowly threaded the labyrinth of her golden 
tresses. “Are these the strings of the golden harp of the 
cherubims ?” she murmured, her senses wandering ; “ they 
are all stirring with music. I stand upon a sea of glass. 


296 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


and I shall si'ig the song of Moses and the Lamb. 3reai 
and marvellous are thy works, Lord Gk)d Almighty ! Just 
and true are all thy ways, O thou King of saints !” 

Her eyes closed, and she lay so still they thought her 
spirit had passed, when, suddenly opening them, she spoke 
with a stronger voice, and a spark gleamed in her eyes, 
from life’s decaying embers. 

“ I have had a dream,” she cried, gazing fixedly at Mrs. 
Worth. “The angel of the Lord came down to me, and 
told me he had a message for you. I am going to have 
company in the grave to-night. The aged and the young 
shall lie side by side, and rise together in the resurrection 
morn. The Master will come, and knock at your door. 
The young man will rise at the call. Keep him not back, 
for the Master is waiting. He’s waiting for him and for 
me.” 

As Mrs. Worth and her children listened to the prophetic 
voice which pronounced the doom of death on their house, 
a cold chill ran through their veins. It was true, her mind 
had been dwelling lately on the dark scenes which had 
transpired at the homestead, and it was natural their re- 
membrance should blend with her dying dreams. 

Bessy, whose early faith in dreams had left a shade of 
superstition on her imagination, clung pale and tearful to the 
arm of Edmund, and entreated him to return. And Mrs. 
Worth impulsively sought to release her hand from the cold 
fingers that closed round it. But reason soon mastered im- 
pulse, and she would not forsake the dying for the terrors of 
a feverish dream. 

“ What will become of my poor daughter,” said the cid 
lady, the throb of natute wakening in her heart — “ alone — 
alone — all alone in the world. Poor Eunice ! — but the Lord 
will take care of her. I have never seen the righteous for- 
saken, nor their seed begging their bread.” 

“I will take care of her,” said Mrs. Worth. “I wiD 
take her home, and make her last days comfortable.” 

“ Bless you — bless you” — murmured the aged mother 
Eunice will soon come to me — turn the hour-glass, the 
sand is all run out.” The last sand of life glided away 
with these words ; the weary pilgrim was at rest. 

Mrs. Worth closed the sunken eyes, smoothed the white 


297 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag, 

locks over the placid brow, and saw the stillness of ever- 
lasting rest gradually steal over every care-worn feature. 
“ Rest to thee, weary pilgriin,” mused her saddened soul ; 
“tliy goal is won. Thou hast dropped thy staff of age, 
for the strength of immortal youth. Thou hast exchanged 
thy lowly cabin for a house not made with hands, eternal 
in the heavens. Death had no terrors for thee, aged 
Christian ; thou hast long waited for him with a smile, 
ind chided his long delay. But when he comes io the 

young — ah me ! — that awful dream ! ” Again a cold 

shudder ran through her veins. It was nothing but a 
dream, — the last, strong impression of life, reflected from 
ft broken mirror. Yet there was something in her great 
ige, associated with the solemnities of a dying hour, that 
mvested her words with the grandeur of prophecy ; and 
die visions of the expiring saint have sometimes been 
strangely realized. Might not the hght of futurity gleam 
through the loop-holes of life’s ruined walls, and the 
shadows of earth, as well as the glories of heaven, break 
in on the soul ? 

While this solemn scene was passing in the cottage. 
Homer was reclining languidly on a sofa, listening to the 
strains which had always a soothing influence over him, 
even in his darkest hours. He had expressed a wish for 
music, and Victorine sang some of the songs he used to 
love. She remained, while the others attended the bed of 
the dying. She shrunk from the sight of death, and she 
was engaged in a duty to the living, sweet, though mourn- 
ful to her soul. She could not refuse a request of Homer’s, 
gentle and unexacting as he now was ; and her voice, 
catching the key-note from her feehngs, made such thrilling 
melody, that the eyes of the invaUd glistened with emotion. 
The lamp was removed into the shadow of the chimney: 
so that the rays of the moon, which streamed through the 
casement, were seen in their full lustre ; they reflected 
the window-sashes and the softly-waving trees on the 
carpet, partially illuminated the figure of Victorine, and 
encircled, with a hah of silvery glory, the reclim'ng 
brow of Homer. The soft stillness of the mooinu hour, 
ihe melancholy sweetness of the minstrelsy, the deep 


L98 


AIJNT patty’s SCKAP-BAG. 


tranquillity of nature, all harmoriized ; and there wus muait 
in the beating of the hearts ^hich kept time with the 
vesper hymn. 

“ Let ,me die listening to a strain like that,” said Homer, 
in a low voice, as Victorine paused, and leaned silently 
over the instrument. “ Music is to me the breath of the 
Deity. It flows into my soul, and difliises a divine glow 
and warmth that I cannot express. It creates an unutter- 
able longing for celestial communion. It comes with 
tidings from the invisible world, and goes with the sighs 
of earth, for the intercourse of angels.” He looked stead- 
fastly at the moon, slowly, serenely gliding on her cerulean 
sea, then turned to Victorine with a deep sigh. “ What a 
contrast to this peaceful scene has been my short and 
troubled life ! But now my soul is in harmony with the 
calm spirit of the universe. I cannot describe the joy 
there is in this hush of the passions, after a day of tem- 
pests, — this subsiding of the stormy billows. O Victo- 
rine ! when I think of the anguish I have caused you and 
all I love ; how I have perverted the gifts of God, and 
turned his richest blessings into curses, I am ready to 
exclaim, ‘ It is better that I die than live.’ And still that 
ejaculation is mine, now that the bitterness of remorse is 
past, and the consciousness of forgiveness from God and 
man has healed the wounds of a guilty conscience ; I still 
exclaim, ‘It is better that I die than live.’ You would 
never be happy with Edmund, while you feared that your 
happiness might be my misery. You would both sacri- 
fice yourselves for me. But the blossoms of your love 
may bloom sweetly on my grave, and the tear that, 
perchance, may fall to my memory, will not mar their 
brightness.” 

“ Do not talk thus,” said the weeping Victorine, sitting 
down by his side, and taking his hand in hers. O 
Homer, what a chill hand is this ! The night-air is too 
cold for you.” 

“ No : I do not feel chill. Do not move. Let me sit 
thus. Perhaps it is the last time I shall ever clasp your 
hand in mine, and gaze ujx^n the face I have loved 
with too fond idolatry. I have resigned you, Victorine,— » 
r^ignea all earthly things ; but, at this moment, I feel m 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


Teaniing desire to recall the love which one® warmed my 
life, — its remembrance comes to me, so like a dream of 
heaven. You once loved me, Victorine?” 

“I love you still,” ijried she faintly, and bowing her 
head on his shoulder. “I have had a divided heart. 
When the dark spell was on you, I was alienated from 
you, and Edmund rivalled you in my affections. But 
now, I feel a tide of tenderness rushing over me, that 
almost drowns my spirit. Every thing is forgotten but 
the love you have borne me, and the sufferings which have 
expiated every wrong.” 

“ This is, indeed, an earnest of heaven ; a bliss I 
dreamed not of tasting on earth,” he uttered, passing one 
arm gently round her, and pressing his cheek on her 
silken tresses. Victorine’s head drooped lower and lower, 
till her tears rained on his breast. A soft, fleeting cloud 
floated over the face of the, moon, and the night-gale 
sighed through the attice. Nature sympathized with 
love and sorrow, and wrapped them in her shadow, as 
with a veil. 

Gradually the arm which clasped Victorine relaxed its 
hold, and she felt a quick shudder run through the bosom 
on which her cheek was pillowed. She raised her head, 
and the cloud rolling back from the moon, she saw that 
his face was deadly pale. “Speak, Homer,” she cried; 
“ you are ill, — you are faint. Merciful heavens \ he cannot 
speak ! — Vivian — Frank — haste — haste — he dies I” 

The young men, who were lingering in the piazza; 
watching for the sisters* return, heard the agonized call 
of Victorine, and rushed to her assistance. 

“It is only a fainting fit,” cried Frank, trying to speak 
with composure; “he will soon revive.” He loosened 
his vest, and bathed his temples with the water which 
Vivian brought. Victorine knelt by him, and chafed 
his chill hands in hers, calling upon him, in the most 
impassioned manner, to speak, and tell her that he 
lived. 

“ I live,” he murmured ; “ I shall live for ever.” 

His mother and Bessy, who had hastened on in advance 
of the rest, now entered the room, and beheld, what they 
believed, the fulfilment of the prophetic dream. 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


300 

“ O my God !” cried Bessy, clinging to ner mother. 
“The Master is come! — I hear Him knot ring at the 
door !” 

Mrs. Worth bent calmly over her son, and laid her cheek 
to his. A supernatural strength girded her heart; she 
felt ready to travel with him through the “ valley of the 
hadow of death,” and she feared no evil. 

“ How is it with thee, my son ? Did the summons find 
thee ready ?” 

“All is peace here, my mother,” said he, laying his 
hand on his heart. And his face looked to her as the face 
of an angel, — so unearthly was its expression, in that pale, 
silvery light. 

Doctor Leyton, who had been immediately summoned, 
said a blood-vessel in the heart had been suddenly rup- 
tured ; and that the skill of man availed nothing in such a 
case. 

“ Move me not,” said the dying youth, as they attempted 
to bear him to a couch. “ Let me lie here, in this blessed 
light. Let it gild the shadows of death. Edmund, I see 
thee not.” 

“I am here, my brother,” cried he, kneeling by the 
side of Victorine; “but, O Homer, I cannot 1^ parted 
from thee.” 

“The living must part, but the dead will meet,” was 
the low, solemn response. “Hinder me not,” continued 
he, in a fainter tone ; “ my Saviour chides my delay. 
Behold he stands at the door and knocks. His head is 
wet with dew, and his locks are heavy with the drops of 
night.” 

He lay silent for a few moments, breathing with diffi- 
culty and pain, on the bosom of his mother. Pale, but 
tearless, she supported him in her arms, wiping the death- 
.damps from his brow, and pressing her lips on its marble 
surface. “ The arms of a mother enfold thee, my fir»i- 
born,” murmered she, “and would bear thee safely ovei 
the gulf of death. But the arms of a Saviour are 
kinder than mine, and to Him, in faith, I yield thee. I am 
laying up my treasures in heaven ; by-and-by I shall seek 
vhem there.” 

Her voice ceased, though her lips continued to move; 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


301 


ftud nothing was heard but the sobbings of grief; save the 
breathing, which became shorter and shorter. A sligh 
convulsion passed over the features of the dying youth 
•* Victorine,” cried he, wildly, “ why hast thou Ten me 
You promised, in death, to be mine,” 

These were the last words that ever passed the lips of 
Homer. His head sunk heavily on the maternal bosom 
The victim of misguided passion was no more. 

Calm be thy rest, thou tempest-tost and weary. Thou 
hast said that the sleep of the grave would be sweet. The 
grassy covering that will wrap thy clay shall be kept 
green by the tears of affection, and thy errors be remem- 
bered only to forgive. 

“ For oh ! how softly do the tints return, 

Of every virtue, sleeping in the urn ; 

Frailties are buried there ; or, if they live, 

Remembrance only wakes them to torgive.*' 



S02 


AUNT patty’s SC&APnBAA. 


CONCLUSION. 


The pale leaves of autumn strewed the grave of Honaer, 
tlie snows of winter covered it, as with a shroud, and the 
flowers of spring began to shed their bloom and sweetness 
there. Time had softened the bitterness of grief, and hope 
and love once more sprang up in the hearts of the young 
dwellers of the homestead. It was hope, however, 
chastened by experience, and love made holier by past 
sorrow. Edmund, “ who was now the only son of his 
mother,” refused to leave her, for more brilliant prospects 
in a foreign land. “My father and elder brother are 
gone,” said he ; “a sacred duty devolves on me, and may 
God only bless me, as I prove worthy of the trust.” 

Mr. Selwyn did not attempt to shake this filial resolu- 
tion, but his own duties were pressing, and he was obliged 
to hasten his departure, already too long deferred. But 
though he consented to leave his adopted son, he was not 
to depart alone. He was to bear a young bride from the 
homestead ; and Bessy, too, as the bride of Vivian, was to 
accompany him, whom having revered so long as a second 
father, she thought it almost impossible she could ever ad- 
dress by the more fanuliar name of brother. 

The last scenes described in this family history have 
been of a dark and gloomy character. We now gladly 
turn to one, where sunshine again illumines the landscape 
of life. We have taken them, as Aunt Patty did the 
pieces from her scrap-bas, a shred of black, and of white, 
or of variegated dyes ; tTie relic of a wedding-dress, or a 
shroud, just as it happened ; for as Aunt Patty herself re* 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 303 

marked : “ Life is nothing but a large piece of patch- 

work. Though the separate parts may be ever so different, 
put them all together, and they make a beautiful whole 
For they are all fixed by the hand of the Almighty, and 
His works are all ordered aright.” 

The double wedding was as unostentatious as possible 
for the family did not wish to blend bridal festivities with 
the weeds of mourning. The sisters exchanged their 
sable dresses for robes of virgin white, but they wore no 
other decoration. They needed none — they were clothed 
in the beauty of innocence, and youth, and love. 

Vivian would have thought his happiness incomplete, 
unless shared by his generous, and warm-hearted friend, 
Frank Wharton. But Bessy could not regret the absence 
of the treacherous Laura, though she lamented the rash- 
ness and folly which had lately made her an alien from 
her maternal home. Laura, vain and unprincipled, had 
long looked with envy on the lovely sisters, whom she 
tried to believe inferior to herself, and whose prosperity 
tinctured with wormwood bitterness the blessings bestowed 
on herself. Resolved to take precedence of them in mar- 
riage, and foolishly hoping to mortify them by the act, she 
eloped with a showy adventurer, whose addresses her 
mother had forbidden her to accept — a heartless libertine, a 
reckless gambler, whose wages of sin were squandered as 
soon as they were won. Laura’s hour for reflection came, 
too late for her happiness, but not, we trust, for her refor- 
mation. 

Aunt Patty, who had not left her little chamber for more 
than two years, was carried down stairs, to witness the 
ceremony ; and old Lady Payne, who was now an inmate 
of the family, laid aside her distaflf and wheel, and sat in 
the family circle. The only ornaments of the room, added 
for the occasion, were garlands of flowers, which Estelle 
and Frank had woven, and the picture of Bessy, which 
looked down from the walls, like the guardian angel of the 
Household. But, fair as the pxture was, Bessy was still 
fairer ; and Frank, though he had magnanimously ^iven her 
to his nval, and endeavoured to stifle every wmrrner feel- 


304 AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 

ing- than brotherly regard, could not help wishing that 
Vivian had never risen, a radiant star on the horizon of 
her young imagination, and extinguished so completely 
his lesser light. His eye turned from Bessy, to the pen- 
sive and dark-haired Victorine, whose once resplendent 
countenance was now softened by an expression of melan- 
choly and resignation, exceedingly touching in one so 
young and beautiful. He thought of the buried Homer, 
in his sad and lonely grave, and a cloud passed over his 
sunny face. The memory of the dead comes with double 
solemnity, in the hour of bridal joy. 

Let us hear what Aunt Patty says of the wedding to 
her neighbour old Lady Payne, forgetting that she cannot 
hear the low, confidential tone, she thinks it proper to 
assume. 

“ It does not seem more than a year or so, since my 
niece Emma, Mrs. Worth that is, stood up to be married ; 
and Parson Broomfield said, that they were the handsomest 
couple that he ever joined together. And now her two 
daughters are old enough to be brides themselves, beauti- 
ful creatures like their mother. Bessy, I must say, is even 
handsomer than her mother was, but she don’t look as if 
she was made of the same flesh and blood of other folks 
I never saw anybody that did look just like her. I think, 
now, she’s big enough to be married ; she might perhaps 
comb her hair out straight, though it would be a pity to 
spoil those pretty ringlets, that look so like sunbeams, on 
her cheek and neck. I don’t wonder Mr. Vivian looks at 
her, as if he loved her so. Who could help it? Well, I 
always thought she and Frank would make a match, but 
the Almighty fixed it another way.” 

Aunt Patty paused to take a pinch of snuff, out of a 
new gold snuff'-box, presented her that morning by Mr. 
Selwyn. She may be pardoned, if she did rap it long and 
loud, and find unusual difficulty in gathering the snuff in 
her fingers ; for it is no wonder she wanted to display such 
a gift. She then continued her soliloquy, as well satisfied 
as if her deaf comparion shared her thoughts. 

« Just to think of Emma, that young thing, marrying a 
man old enough to be her father ! He’s a fine, noble- 
Vooking man though, and carries his head as high as % 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


30 & 


prince. And he’s a kind, good gentleman, too, for he 
helped to bring me down stairs, with his own hands ; and 
then he gave me this fine snulf-box of solid gold, all 
marked and figured up, a present fit for a queen. Poor 
Victorine ! I saw her turn away just now, to hide a tear 
that stands in her eye. She’s thinking of Homer, but she 
loves Edmund for all that. By-and-by, there will be 
another wedding, and it won’t do any harm to Homer, for 
he’s where there are ‘ no more marryings, and givings in 
marriage ; but where he is like the angels of God in 
heaven.’ I do hope, and believe he is. What a strange 
world this is ! Everybody loving and marrying ! Well ! 
I think people who live by themselves are the best off, 
after all — they are so quiet; and then when the Lord 
calls them away, they don’t leave such a big gap behind 
them.” 

At the close of the evening, the scrap bed-quilt was 
produced, which had been the admiration of so many eyes, 
and which Aunt Patty had promised to the niece who 
should marry first. She was in a dilemma, for both 
nieces were married at the same time. To be sure, Emma 
was the eldest, but she always thought Bessy would be 
its owner, and she did not like to give up her original 
opinion. 

“ I’ll tell you what to do, Aunt Patty, *’ said Frank ; 
keep it for Estelle, who is really the lawful proprietor, 
for she made it, with her own precious little fingers.” 

Both Emma and Bessy sanctioned the decision of Frank, 
which they asserted was dictated by the wisdom of 
S.domon. 

“ I shall never live to see the dear child married,” re- 
plied Aunt Patty, shaking her head sorrowfully. “ When 
she wears her bridal robes, I shall be ^vrapped in my 
shroud, and nobody wiU remember any thing about poor, 
<^ld Aunt Patty.” , 

“Don’t talk so, Aunt Patty,” cried Estelle, her eyes 
filling with tears ; “ you know we never can forget you. 
Besides, I never mean to be married. Emma and Bessy 
can’t love mother half as well as I do, or they never wouU 
be willing to go away, so far off.” 


306 


’TNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


“You will think di3erently, several years hence,” said 
Frank. “ I’ll wait for you myself, if you will premise to 
marry me, when you are old enough. You know how 
often we have gathered flowers, and made charades and 
conundrums together. You never will see anybody you 
will like as well as you do me, Estelle.” 

“I never expect to,” answered she, with a glow of 
gratitude, at the remeraz^rance of his participation in her 
childish pleasures. “ I love you almost as well as I do 
Edmund. But that isn’t the kind of love people feel, 
when they marry each other.” 

“ What kind is that, Estelle ?” asked Frank, looking 
towards the lovely brides. 

“ I don’t know exactly,” replied she, blushing at finding 
herself a poorer metaphysician than she thought she was; 
“but look at Emma and Bessy, and Mr. Selwyn, and 
Mr. Vivian, and see how different they look at each other, 
from what you, and I, and Aunt Patty do. They take 
little short looks, and a great parcel of them, but we look 
and have done with it.” 

Frank laughed outright. A philosopher could hardly 
have explained better the difference between the electric 
glances of love, and the calm gaze of friendship. 

When he told Estelle to promise to marry him, when 
she was old enough, he only gave utterance to a sportive 
thought. But as he reflected, he grew serious. He 
thought, Avhat a charming thing it would be, to be united 
to a sister of Bessy’s, who would be only less beautiful 
than herself ; to make the first impression on her young 
and innocent heart ; to mould the virgin wax of her juve- 
nile affections, and stamp upon its softened surface the 
image of himself. 

(One sentence in parentheses : — Frank did indeed wait 
for Estelle, who, when she became older, really supplanted 
Bessy in the heart of her early admirer.) 

And Victorine ! — Was Aunt Patty a true prophet ? 
Was the tear in her eye, for the buried Homer ; and tha 
smile on her lip, for the living Edmund? Yes ! it was 
even so Memory and hope met in her heart, and while 
the shadows 'f the one rolle I over its surface, the light of 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


307 


the oth^ tinged them with golden lustre. Never, since 
the death of Homer, had Edmund spoken to her other- 
wise than as a brother might address a sister. They had 
stood together over his grave, when the winds of autumn 
strewed the mourning leaves on the earth ; they had 
talked of him, by the warmth of the winter’s fireside, and 
amidst the sweetness of spring’s opening flowers. This 
night, they named him not; they spoke of the bridal 
scene, the morrow’s parting, and the void that would be 
made in the family circle. 

“ What shall we do, without Emma and Bessy ?” said 
Victorine. “ Oh ! desolate will be the dwelling of Moina,” 
added she, fixing her dark, melancholy eyes on the pale 
face of Mrs. Worth. 

“You must be Emma and Bessy in one,” replied Ed- 
mund, “ and the dwelling where you remain, Victorine, 
never can be desolate. My mother has no daughter 
whom she loves better than yourself.” 

“And yet I have brought her much sorrow,” said Vic- 
torine, sadly. “ I fear, I was born to cast a cloud over all 
who love me.” 

“ A cloud has been resting over us long,” said Edmund, 
in a low voice, intended for her ear alone ; “ but it is in 
your power to bring back sunshine to our hearts and 
home.” 

Victorine blushed. The look he bent upon her was 
such as she had met beneath the oak of the mountain, 
when passion suddenly rent the veil that covered it, and 
revealed its hidden fires. Her heart thrilled at the re- 
membrance, but hope, in its triumph, soon banished me- 
mory. 

“Victorine,” continued Edmund, “I have loved you, in 
sorrow and remorse, when I thought to love you was a 
crime. I have loved you in sadness and doubt, while I 
looked upon you as bearing in your bosom a widowed 
heart. I love you now, in hope and faith, and, in this 
scene of wedded happiness, I dare to look forward to years 
of joy, with you.” 

Victorine tried to answer, but the words died on her 
trembling lips. Th« re was no need, however, of her 
bpeaking, for as Aunl Patty often said “ Victorine had a 


AUNT patty’s scrap-bag. 


308 

tongue in her eyes, that told every thing, whether the 
willed or no.” To quote another of Aunt Patty’s saying, 
which were almost as celebrated as the proverbs of Solo- 
mon : “ The Lord had made Edmund and Victorine for 

each other, in His own Almightiness, and man could never 
keep them apart.” 

The sayings of Aunt Patty are ended — her scrap^bag 
given to tho world. 


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